Shades of Grey
by chromeknickers
Summary: In the aftermath of the Hogwarts' battle, Draco Malfoy is interned at Godric's Hollow under the vigilant eye of Ginevra Weasley. While Harry and the Order convene to decide on Draco's fate, an unlikely bond is formed between captor and captive.
1. Solitude

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter One: Solitude_

_8 June 1998_

_I turn to face myself, incomplete, seeing only the scattered remnants of a child. Memories come back to haunt me with a singular clarity of what once was and will never be again. I know, now, that there is no going back; there will be no last stand._

_This is what it means to be broken …_

He took in a deep breath and sighed, setting down both book and quill on the tiny, dusty bedside cabinet that stood beside the iron-sprung bed and mould-encrusted mattress. He stared intently at the stains that the ink had made on his fingertips, imagining it as a type of cancer – swelling and spreading, slowly breaking down his body until there was nothing left but bone.

He had spent the last month alone in this dark, dank, flea-infested rat-hole. He did not mind the seclusion as he had spent most of his childhood in solitude, surrounded by strangers. His self-imposed isolation was a matter of survival in his House. To open up oneself to another was to invite treachery and breed mistrust. His ability to distance himself from others had served him well in the past; however, when his alienation became enforced on a physical and not just a mental level, his instinct was to bolt – to panic like a caged animal.

Draco Malfoy had become a prisoner of war.

Like thieves in the night, the Order had come into his home and shackled and dragged him to his current abode of incarceration: a dingy hovel in Godric's Hollow. He had resisted the urge to curse and struggle against his captors. It would have been to no avail. They had arrested his parents the day before, and since his father could not stop them, how could he expect himself to? He had no power.

So, in abject silence, Draco submitted; he simply surrendered. Gone was the fire and absent was the hate. He felt hollow inside. Life no longer had any colour to it. It was all just various shades of grey.

He turned his head towards the small window beside his bed and tentatively reached out to touch it, watching as his fingers made prints on the condensation that formed on the glass. Outside, the white fog was hanging thick and damp in the air, accentuating the seasonally abnormal cold. He took in another deep breath and removed his fingertips from the windowsill. He glanced down at his hand, turning it over, noting the unnatural lines of dirt that had begun to form between the creases of his knuckles and underneath the nails.

He could measure the span of his life in the soft lines that indented his palms. Time, however, was no longer relevant to him. This day or that day had no value placed upon it, no importance. The only reason he knew to date his journal was due to the perennial sensation he felt not some three days past. His birthday had come and gone like the rising and setting of the sun: noticed, but rarely appreciated. He wondered, absently, if he had aged greatly in these last few weeks. He reached up to touch his face, searching now for lines on his smooth alabaster skin.

A black crow cawed outside, startling him from his ruminations. He lowered his hand, frowned, and then lay back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. After a brief moment, the crowing finally subsided, and he was, once again, left to the quiet. They say silence has a way of becoming deafening if endured for too long. Deprived of human contact for little over a month, Draco had discovered that he had been living the life of a deaf man.

He glanced over at the locked door. He had no idea what time it was. It was hard to tell on grey, foggy days like these. He could only guess at generalities of morning, afternoon, evening, or night. He assumed that it was close to midday as his stomach was doing somersaults in anticipation of food.

He grimaced at his own predictable nature. He was Pavlov's dog in practice. He wondered why he had stomached it for so long, why he even had an appetite. He had attempted, in vain, to starve himself – refusing to eat for the first three days. However, hunger and desperation finally reared their ugly heads, and he gave in. Appetite and apathy took over, and he found no reason or cause for starving himself.

Right on cue, the makeshift tray door opened, and a plate of food was hastily shoved inside his tiny cell. Just as quickly, the door snapped shut. He eyed the shapeless mass of 'sustenance' with a sense of hunger and revulsion. He then laced his fingers behind his head and resumed his staring competition with the ceiling. Whoever his jailer was, he would not give him the satisfaction of watching him scurry to the floor like some ravenous dog devouring the meagre meal provided. Broken and disillusioned as he might have believed himself to be, he still had self-respect.

He brought his head up and glanced over at the modest bookshelf at the end of the bed, towards the back of the room. There were only a few books on the shelf, including the journal that he had begun to record his thoughts in. The journal itself had a worn leather cover with the spine broken in. After skimming the first few pages, he had noted, rather oddly, that there was no writing inside. Much like his life, it was unused but worn and discarded. He decided to claim the diary as his own, to maintain his sanity.

They say that the body cannot survive without the mind, but how long does it take to break a man? It had only been a month, but to Draco it had begun to feel like an eternity. Belligerent insanity was almost inevitable.

He scowled as he scanned the rest of his prison cell: a desk, a chair, a tiny wardrobe and small dresser, a mirror, and a sink and toilet. The room itself was dirty, cramped, and reeked of a notably pungent odour that he was, unfortunately, becoming accustomed to. They had left him no means of entertainment: no music, no wand, no nothing.

What few books were there he had already read several times over. Most of them were old second-hand textbooks from school; however, there were a few Muggle books: _Wuthering Heights_, _Pride and Prejudice_, and _Crime and Punishment_. After a week, he broke down and read the latter. He found it to be not too bad, for a Muggle book. The first two appeared to be romance novels – not really his cup of tea. He leafed through the pages and found that he was not quite bored enough to begin reading them – perhaps in another month. Perhaps if his genitalia shrivelled up and turned inward then maybe he'd develop a predilection for that sort of genre.

He glanced over at the food and tried to mentally retrieve the tray. He, of course, could not use any magic in his personal prison. Potter still had his wand, and Draco found that he could not even perform the most mundane non-verbal spells. There was a great interlocking web of wards placed on his cell and even the grounds outside his residence of incarceration. The woven complexity of the barrier spells were beyond him and without a wand he could not begin to fathom a way to undo or counter them.

His mind briefly wandered to the image of his wand, and he thought back to the battle at Hogwarts. He mentally castigated himself on his ineptitude for both losing his wand and not capturing Potter himself when he had the chance. In the end, he supposed his conscience had given way in some form, allowing the scar-faced boy to have the upper hand.

He shook his head and scowled. He did not like to think back to his seventh year. He found it easier to force it to the back of his mind, repressing the memories that still shadowed his soul. The past was unimportant; what mattered was the present. Would he fit into this new order, this new regime? He doubted it. He and his family had backed the wrong horse. They were pariahs now: denizens without homes.

So, what did the future hold in store for him? Would he be sent to Azkaban with his father, incarcerated with the rest of the Death Eaters and fellow miscreants, or would he be set free? Yet again, he didn't appear to care.

In this moment, all Draco sought was respite from the bitter and lonely isolation. He had survived much worse than this, he knew, but he was a stronger man then; he had hope. Now the pergolas of his impenetrable tower walls had come crashing down around him, leaving a wake of carnage and desolation in its path. What survived the wreckage to crawl out of the debris was an empty shell of a boy, who, above all else, longed only for a reprieve from the solitude.

* * *

**Author's notes:** There is not an excessive amount of dialogue in the first few chapters of this story as it caters more to the internal as opposed to the external development of characters and plot. The chapters are relatively short and follow a journal-entry style for the first half, which I believe best evinces the ruminations of both Draco and Ginevra.

* * *

**Books**:

_Wuthering Heights_ by Emily Brontë  
_Pride and Prejudice_ by Jane Austen  
_Crime and Punishment_ by Fydor Dostoyevsky

* * *

This fic was originally written for **rowan-greenleaf's DG Forum** _Summer 2009 Fic-Exchange_ (for Robyn, raspberry-rave).

Robyn's prompt:

**Basic outline**: A Stockholm Syndrome type fic where one of the pair is kidnapped/held hostage by the other but ends up falling for him/her. It's up to the writer who is kidnapped by whom. I want to see development more than anything.

**Must haves**: Must feature this snippet:

_"Do you hate me?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Already? Liar."_

Bonus points for unconventional use, Post-Hogwarts, Romance/Drama (heavy on the drama), possessive!Draco.

**No-no's**: Excessive fluff, non-con, Ginny swearing excessively.

**Rating range**: T-M

**Bonus points**: A drastic physical change.


	2. The Lioness

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Two: The Lioness_

Ginevra Weasley attacked her rebellious mane with her brush in a futile attempt to untangle the obstinate copper-coloured locks. She was definitely not having a good hair day, and this only seemed to add to her already darkened mood. It would not be a wise idea to cross the path of this lioness today.

She was due to meet Harry at six o'clock sharp. To her dismay, it wasn't a social call; it was business. He had Floo-called her earlier that morning, waking her from her much-needed sleep. She had thought to reprimand him for his lack of decorum with a growl and a few derisive comments, but the urgency in his tone at his request for a meeting had softened her more feral nature … for the time being.

The grim expression on his face from the fireplace belied his good-natured, boyish looks as responsibility, power, and stress had begun to take its toll on the once light-hearted boy. Not yet eighteen, he looked as though he had aged a decade over the course of their eight-month absence.

He had not taken a break since the final, victorious battle at Hogwarts; Ginevra, however, had. She had a slight more luxury with her time than what was afforded to Harry. This, however, did not discount her more filial and sibling obligations: tending to her family in their time of mourning, comforting George, and helping her mother take care of young Teddy. Although Andromeda now claimed guardianship over her grandson, she, too, had several funerals to arrange, including her husband's and her daughter's.

Ginevra had told herself that, in the end, the right side had won. Good had triumphed over evil – but at what cost? Many would claim that the sacrifices made were for the greater good. She had lost a brother and many dear friends, and she did not take their sacrifices lightly. Thus, at times, she found herself not utterly convinced that it was worth it. It was true that more would have died if Voldemort had not been vanquished, but still there was always the chance that Fred would still be alive …

All she knew was that the burning fire in her soul and the aching pain in her heart demanded retribution. She did not know when Hogwarts would be reopened, but when it did, she would renew her studies with a determined vigour. She would become an Auror and hunt down the traitorous dogs that had escaped. She would exact her revenge one way or another.

In the meantime, everyone else was scrambling around, trying to get his or her lives sorted out. For Ginevra, life had not even begun to return to a state of normalcy. Perhaps that is why she wasn't remotely shocked or unnerved when she heard the urgency mixed with hesitation in Harry's voice. He needed her help, and she was willing to proffer it. She had to get out of the Burrow and do something. She was a Leo, after all; she grew restless without action or stimulation of some sort.

After spending several hours trying on different outfits, she finally settled on a white sundress that hugged her lithe figure, accentuating her feminine curves. She donned on a pair of matching white sandal heels and a thin white cardigan. She had come to the realisation that her hair was not going to tame itself, so she let it flow down her back in waves. She was sporting a carefree beach-look, suitable for the month but not for the incredibly dismal and dreary weather that they had been experiencing as of late. She thought July was the rainy month, not June.

Ginevra arrived at the Ministry of Magic just before six. Normally, they would have met at Harry's home at Grimmauld Place, but the Order was still working on removing all the pernicious wards that had been placed on it by Death Eaters. The criminals in question were not yet ready to reveal the counter curses and all the little malefic devices that they had hidden in the tiny nooks and crannies of the manor unless they were offered a lighter sentence in return (typical Death Eater scum).

Making her way to Harry's office, Ginevra opened the door to find the brunette bent over his desk, scratching at his dark, floppy fringe.

"Hey, Harry," she said, smiling as she leaned against the doorframe, attempting to look casual and seductive.

Harry snapped his head up and smiled almost nervously at Ginevra, his eyes straining to look at her in the dim light. Something was definitely up. He didn't normally look this apprehensive when he greeted her.

"Hey, Ginny," he said, getting up to greet her. "I'm so glad you could come. I really appreciate it." He bent down to kiss her cheek.

Ginevra smiled thinly. They had got back together just over a month ago, and all he did was chastely kiss her on the cheek. She received more affection from Hermione's cat.

Sure, it was true that she and Harry had snogged a few times since their reunion, but he had become far too busy with the Order, trying to figure out what to do with the surviving Death Eaters. Azkaban was not yet fully operational. The walls had been rebuilt, but since they were no longer employing Dementors as jailers, they needed to construct an elaborate ward system and hire proper wizard prison guards. Ron had suggested retired Aurors, which shocked the living magic out of Hermione at the simple genius of it. Until they could finish creating the wards and hiring the appropriate staff, certain chambers in the Ministry would have to be used instead, serving as make-shift prison cells.

"What's up?" she asked, stepping past him into the room.

The vibes that she was getting from his formal tones gave her the impression that she was definitely not going to like the favour that he was going to call in. She knew that this morning would portend how her evening would end: frustrated, annoyed, and possibly tangled.

"Well," Harry began as he ushered her to the chair in front of his desk. "I need you to do a really big favour for me."

Ginevra took the offered seat and waited expectantly.

"I need you to look after a prisoner for me," he said, eyeing her cautiously as he took the seat across from her.

Ginevra cocked an eyebrow in the air in mild interest. "Who?"

She knew that it was going to be a big favour, but she didn't expect him to put her in charge of guarding a criminal. She found herself both intrigued and somewhat excited by the prospect of it.

"Malfoy," Harry answered bluntly.

Her mouth hung ajar at the audacity of such a request. She quickly shut it and narrowed her amber-coloured eyes on her boyfriend.

"You want me to be the jailer of the man who gave me Riddle's first Horcrux?" she cried indignantly, standing up. "The man who tried to kill me?"

"No," Harry said, waving his hands in front of his face in a defensive manner. "I want you to guard _Draco_Malfoy."

Ginevra drew her head back in shock and sat back down in her seat. She furrowed her brow in keen concentration as the gravity of the situation slowly sunk in.

"What?" she finally asked.

She had forgot that Draco had also been arrested. What she wondered, however, was why the blond-haired tosspot was being given special treatment. As though he could read her thoughts, Harry spoke up and answered her.

"He is being interned at Godric's Hollow," he explained with a wave of his hand. "He could not be housed with the other Death Eaters here at the Ministry because he was under-age until just a few days ago."

"But seventeen is of age in the wizarding world," Ginevra countered.

Harry grimaced. "Yes, but with the Ministry being in such shambles as it is right now, we're still debating on whether or not to use Muggle standards for criminal cases," he explained with a sigh before sitting back down and bringing a hand to the arm of his chair. "Kingsley and the others are still convening on whether or not he will stand trial as an adult wizard, as his crimes were committed before he turned seventeen." He shook his head and brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose, squeezing off the beginnings of a headache. "There are just so many cases to sort through."

"But the Malfoy family was arrested only a week after the Hogwarts' battle," Ginevra stated, crossing her arms in annoyance. "Where has he been since then, under house arrest?"

Harry lowered his hand and shook his head again. "Not exactly. He was immediately sent to Godric's Hollow, where he is currently being watched. Professor Flitwick warded the cottage for us, which is why we had to wait another day to arrest Draco."

"So, who is watching him now?" she asked.

"Flitwick," Harry replied, looking sheepish. "But we need his expertise at Azkaban. The sooner we can properly ward the prison, the sooner we can get Death Eaters out of the Ministry!" He brought his fists energetically down on the desk and then took in a deep breath and glanced up at the redhead. "Ginny, I'm in a real pinch here. I could really use your help on this."

He smiled down at her and reached out to take her hand, warmly squeezing it. Ginevra looked down at his hand on hers and let the shadow of a smile cross her features. She did not, however, return his affectionate squeeze.

"Can't Ron or Hermione do it?" she asked, beginning to have second doubts about her assignment.

She remembered Draco in school. He was handsome, but he was also a selfish bigot. He was always teasing her, and, quite frankly, she hated the spoiled git. He had a way of getting underneath her skin like no one else – even more so than Zacharias Smith and Fleur combined.

"Hermione is helping Flitwick," Harry explained, bringing his hand back and then swivelled around on his chair. "And Ron …" He paused with an upward inflection. "Well, Ron would most likely kill Malfoy."

"And _I_wouldn't?"

"Yes, but you are a bit more reasonable than Ron," Harry countered, a cheeky grin spreading across his face.

Ginevra couldn't help but grin back. "Alright." She sighed, giving in, shrugging her shoulders and placing her hands on her lap. She knew that she could not bring herself to let down Harry.

"Fantastic!" Harry said, beaming. He jumped up from his chair and walked around the desk, grabbing her hand to bring her into a warm embrace. "I knew I could count on you, Gin-bug!"

"Yeah, yeah," she said, pulling back slightly and smiling up at him. "So, when do I leave?"

Harry's smile turned into a frown. "Later tonight, if possible."

Ginevra shook her head and stepped back out of his embrace. "I can't leave tonight!" she exclaimed. "I have to pack. I have to tell Mum and Dad. I can't just leave right this minute!"

"Right, right, of course," Harry said, nodding his head in agreement. "I had Flitwick return today. I guess Malfoy can go a day without eating."

"He can go a month without eating for all I care," Ginevra replied petulantly, wrapping her cardigan tightly around herself.

"Well, when you are ready tomorrow," he said quickly, changing the subject, "I will have Stanford, who's in charge of Transportation now, give you a Portkey to take you to the grounds outside Godric's Hollow."

Harry then raised a finger in the air, as if remembering something important, and went back around to his desk and opened one of the top drawers. He pulled out a wand.

"Here, take this," he said, offering it to her.

"Whose is this?" she asked.

She already had her own wand. She had no idea why Harry was handing her someone else's.

"It's Malfoy's wand," he answered, and her eyes widened. "It doesn't have the power of the Elder Wand." He offered her a reassuring smile, noting her look of trepidation. "Besides, only I can wield that one, unless disarmed."

Draco Malfoy's wand was the one that disarmed Dumbledore and, ultimately, defeated Voldemort. But it was Harry who disarmed Draco and took his wand, thus giving him full ownership.

"How did—"

"Ollivander says that it will work perfectly normal for Malfoy," Harry explained, interrupting her. "The Elder Wand, itself, has been returned to its proper resting place where it will have no master, and its power will diminish once I die."

Ginevra smiled sadly and nodded her head. It had been returned to Dumbledore, lying once more beside him in his white tomb.

"You can hold onto it." Harry offered it to her once more, and this time she took it, eyeing it as though it was venomous. "If he's released of all charges, we will give it back to him, and who knows," hey added, laughing, "maybe you can use it as leverage against him if he's being unruly."

Ginevra scowled, looking down at Malfoy's wand. She had other plans.

"Oh, and magic does not work inside the house or on the grounds – wand or non-verbal," Harry added as an afterthought, as he began to usher her towards the door. "However, Flitwick has made it that whoever is the gatekeeper, or the jailer rather, can use magic. It is somewhat restrictive though." He frowned slightly. "You can only use light magic for cleaning, healing, and some light defence. The barrier only permits weak magic – no Unforgivable curses or dangerous hexes. Flitwick can arrange for the proper keeper spell to be made tomorrow."

Ginevra nodded her head and walked outside his office, turning around to face him. "You know, you owe me now," she said, winking.

Harry's smile spread widely across his face. "More chocolate than you possibly fathom," he said with a wink, as he leaned down and kissed her cheek again.

_Chocolate? Yes, that's what I meant by 'owe me'_, she thought to herself with a frown.

"It should only be a few weeks – a month maximum!" he promised.

In the end, Ginevra would have to look back at this moment to appreciate the irony in the expression 'Famous last words'.

* * *

**Author's notes: Flooing** – In this case (and throughout the story) I use the term _Floo_ for fireplace calls, where one's head is able to appear in another's fireplace and have a discussion much like a video phone.


	3. Yin Yang

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Three: Yin-Yang_

_11 June 1998_

_I suspect my jailer is dead. I had hoped that the bloody wanker would die, but I would have rather had it happen after my release not during. I have not received a meal for the past two days. Perhaps they have left me here to die. I haven't yet decided whether I shall go silently or not._

Draco put down the journal when he heard a distinct warping noise, like the shaking of sheet metal, outside his window. Jumping up, he quickly plastered his face against the glass, searching for the maker of the aforementioned sound when he spotted a small figure in a dark hooded cloak with a suitcase in hand. He or she had obviously Portkeyed onto the grounds and was now winding his or her way up to the house with head lowered and hood raised. He wagered that it was a woman – the shape and size was far too petite to be a man.

He sat down on the bed and put a hand to his rumbling stomach. As much as he disliked the unpalatable food (it was pure tripe) that he had been served for the past month, he starved for it now. Perhaps this girl was to be his previous jailer's replacement … or the guard's Healer. He still had no idea if the man had just buggered off or dropped dead.

_If she is the replacement jailer, she certainly took her bloody time in getting here_, he thought to himself, grimacing.

He glanced over at the mirror and studied his face. His eyes were dark and sunken as black rims lined the hollows of his pewter-coloured eyes. His skin had a pale greyish tinge to it, making him look both tired and gaunt.

Getting up and walking over to the basin filled with water, Draco washed his face and slowly trailed his fingers through his platinum-blond hair, which hung limply down the nape of his neck, just reaching his shoulders. He looked aimlessly for something to tie it back in but found nothing.

He rinsed his fingers in the water again and slicked back his hair some more. He had not been able to have a proper shower since there was no bath. He had only the sink basin and the soap provided to wash daily. He refused to appear like some dingy commoner in the presence of a woman, no matter who she was. It was only proper.

He stopped and listened, putting an ear against the door. He had not heard the woman enter the house, and he knew that there were no Silencing charms placed on his cell, as he had often heard his former guard coughing or scuffling about the room outside his door – although he never spoke. Draco assumed that if he did, he talked in another room far from his cell, perhaps on the top floor.

Then he heard it: the sound of a soft feminine voice sighing and the sound of luggage dropping to the floor. He jumped back. It had been a while since he had heard another's voice, especially a woman's. His former jailer had only dragged his feet about like some hapless dwarf.

There was a soft click of heels nearing the door, and Draco quietly ran over to the bed to grab the diary, to hide the precious contraband. His fingers slipped on the soft leather, and it fell to the floor with a snapping sound. He cursed under his breath, knowing that the woman had heard it as her footsteps had suddenly stopped. He reached down to pick the book up and hide it under his pillow, when he noticed the red writing on the open page.

He gingerly picked the journal up by its leather cover and turned it over. There was writing on the very last page, upside down, written in red ink. He slowly leafed through the pages at the back. There must have been twenty some odd pages of tiny writing and scribbles. The person was obviously working his or her way backwards towards the front of the journal.

Draco frowned, realising that it wasn't his diary after all; it had been someone else's.

He heard the footsteps resume their course towards his cell, and he hastily shoved the diary underneath the pillow. He grabbed the copy of _Crime and Punishment_ off the bedside cabinet and plopped down on the bed, propping his back against the pillow. He opened the book and stared down at the pages, attempting to look engrossed in his reading. He wanted to appear casual and non-affected. He glanced up momentarily when he heard her steadily say '_Alohomora_' outside the door.

The knob turned slowly, and in walked a stately-looking woman of an undetermined age. Draco refused to look up, but he could see her out of the corner of his eye. Her hood was covering most of her face. She cleared her throat, and he finally glanced up only to cock an eyebrow at her, looking both thoroughly annoyed and disturbed by her entrance and interruption.

She was quite small, just barely over five feet tall – five-foot-two, at the most, and Draco was faintly reminded of a doll. She had a waif-like form, yet he could detect subtle curves underneath her light-weight navy blue cloak, worn for rainy days such as these, he supposed. The cloth was poorly cut and was neither old nor worn; it was just cheap. She wore the inexpensive fabrics well though. She had tiny, pale hands with a pink hue to them, and he could see rose-budded lips peeking out from beneath the length of her hood.

With a swift and fluid motion, she took a deft hand and pulled the cover back, allowing for the glory and splendour of rich, full waves of blood-copper curls to spill out onto her shoulders and back, dramatically contrasting against the deep navy colour of her cloak. Cinnamon-coloured freckles lightly powdered her porcelain-like skin, reaching towards her deep amber-coloured eyes, which were almond-shaped and cold.

Draco recognised the hair and face right away: Ginny Weasley.

"Malfoy," she addressed him in a regal tone, looking down her nose at him. "I will be your guard for the next month." She sniffed about, scrunching her face in an unattractive manner as she took in a whiff of the stale, pungent air.

He brought his attention back down to the book in his hands, ignoring her completely.

So, Potter had sent his girlfriend? How intimidating. That's how much of a threat Boy Wonder believed him to be? He wondered how the girl was able to use magic with all the wards that this place had on it. He guessed that she had been granted some kind of immunity, like the powers a Secret-Keeper would be given or something to that effect.

"I would have assumed that someone like you to have been more hygienic," she commented, her nose still in the air, letting her delicate fingers trace over the lines of dust until they met the bookcase. She frowned, scouring the sparse selection of literature that he had been provided with.

He chose not to let her goad him into a response. It was his sensible twin stepping forward, the one who chose his battles wisely. Of course, he had no real say over his conditions. He made do with what he had, which was better than how others would have turned out, _including _her. He could counter her slurs by hurling back a few scathing epithets of his own, but that took effort. Besides, the yin twin had noted the Weasley's lack of sensitivity and filed it under 'Weapon to Use Later'.

"Don't feel like talking then?" she asked, beginning to become slightly disturbed by and annoyed with his lack of response.

She had begun to slowly stalk towards him with a smug look of superiority plastered on her, at once, beautiful yet ugly face. He continued to ignore her, looking down at his book, turning the page.

"You know, I absolutely _despised_ you in school," she commented casually, almost wistfully. "You always sauntered about like some cock of the walk, as though you owned everything and everyone." She glared down at him, and he looked up, staring through her as though she didn't even exist. "And where are you now?" She snorted with her arms outstretched, motioning to his dismal surroundings.

He almost retorted. He wanted nothing more than to put the sanctimonious little blood-traitor in her place. The yang was burning like a fire inside; however, he had to remind himself that _she_ was the weak one, coming in here to boss him around while he had no power, no means of defending himself. There would be no court trial for her should she decide to torture him. After all, she was the one with the wand.

The Weasley girl, on the other hand, seemed positively livid that Draco was not even dignifying her with a grunt in response. There were no Malfoyisms, no snarky retorts, no bigoted and derisive comments. There was just silence.

"You almost killed Katie Bell!" she shouted unexpectedly, allowing his eyes to make brief contact with hers. "You poisoned my brother!"

Draco frowned slightly, narrowing his eyes. Ah, yes, a tirade. He wondered what took her so long to have an emotionally irrational outburst.

She took in a deep breath and rounded on him with a pointed finger, launching into a predictable, abusive diatribe.

"You let Death Eaters and Fenrir Greyback into our school!" she cried, her voice becoming shriller as she continued. "You tried to kill Dumbledore!" She began to hiccup as she held back angry tears. "You held Luna Lovegood, amongst others, prisoner in your own home!"

She then grew silent, and her eyes narrowed.

_Wait for it_, he thought to himself.

"You tried to kill Harry Potter!"

_There we go._

Her voice had become hoarse from all the chastising, and yet Draco still maintained a front of appearing unaffected, refusing to respond. He didn't even blink. He simply let her throw her tantrum and, once she was finished, he looked back down at his book.

Infuriated, she reached his bed in several quick strides, glared down at him, and slapped the book right out of his hands.

"You think lying there, reading books, is going to help you wait out your sentence?" she shouted. "This is not some game, some fantasy world. You will reap what you have sown, Malfoy!" She snapped her fingers in front of his face, and he looked up. "You will bloody well look at me when I talk to you!"

Draco upper lip twitched. He had thought he wanted a reprieve from his solitude, but he had not expected his anchor to the communicative world to be the vindictive and spiteful Weasley girl in front of him, full of piss and vinegar. He smiled internally at the thought. Even though the little bint was being overly abusive towards him, he believed that his incarceration with the She-Weasel would somehow be both infinitely horrible and oddly entertaining.

It would be horrible because she was obviously a bitch of a Gryffindor – your typical dogmatic sore winner. On the other hand, it would also be entertaining because as desperate as she was trying to goad him, he found that _she_ was much easier to set off. Additionally, she apparently absolutely despised being ignored. Draco could have a lot of fun with that: it would make up for his lack of entertainment.

Strangely enough, he also found that he could wholeheartedly empathise with her need to lash out and reprimand the reprobate. He would have done the same had their situation been reversed; in fact, he most likely would have been doing a lot more than verbal berating her. Whereas her claim to chide was based on supposed moral superiority, his was founded on good old-fashioned class superiority. Either way, he could begrudge her of her anger.

"I'm your karma, Malfoy," she growled, stirring him from his melancholy, "coming back to haunt you."

He let the ghost of a sneer adorn his face, and she returned it with surpassing vigour. He knew it was a mistake; he was just adding fuel to the fire. Sadly, old habits died hard.

"Back then, at Hogwarts, _you_ had all the power. You had your minions and half the staff in your pocket. Now, you see," she said quietly, leaning down, "_I_ am the one with power."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a hawthorn wand about ten inches in length. His eyes slightly widened, and his heart began to beat loudly in his chest. She had his wand, and he was almost salivating at the thought of it in his hand. He knew that this was not possible though. His mind instinctively knew that this was, most assuredly, a trick.

She smiled, almost warmly, at the painful expressions conflicting on his face. She began to extend the wand to his fingers, and he tentatively reached out to receive it. Then her smile contorted into a ghastly and malicious grin, and her eyes narrowed, turning cold. She quickly drew the wand out of his grasp and brought it down to her knee. In one swift motion, Ginevra Weasley had broken Draco Malfoy's wand in half.

His mouth opened in silent protest and disbelief. His heart sank in his chest. There was no anger in his eyes, only defeat. She had broken a piece of him.

"Do you hate me?" she asked, a smug smile of satisfaction tugging at her lips, as she absently dropped the splintered pieces of wood to the floor.

"Yes," he replied tonelessly, his voice barely above a whisper. His grey irises were dull and listless, staring intently at the two broken halves of his _being _on the floor.

"Already?" she queried with a snort, as she brought her arms across her chest. Her body was rigid, and her countenance was domineering as she stared down at him. "Liar."

* * *

**Author's notes: **So, this is their first encounter. Lovely, wasn't it? Don't you want to slap dogmatic Ginevra senseless? Here we see the positive zodiac traits of Draco, the Gemini, shine through (plus he's far less melancholic this time around). He is adaptive, versatile, and still has a sense of humour and wit about him despite the dire straights he has been placed in. Also, like a Gemini, he is unsure of his course of action but is fluid and natural in his reactions (the yin-yang of his twin element).

Ginevra, on the other hand, is displaying all the negative traits of a Leo: bossy, patronising, uncompromising, and unforgiving. This is a side we have never seen of Ginevra nor of our Harry Potter 'verse heroes. This is the way that conquerors treat the conquered. There is a reason why _only_ victors write the history books.

* * *

**Notes on yin-yang**: Yin and yang are opposing principles that are rooted together. They are compatible opposites. One cannot exist without the other. (They are not symbols of good and/or evil. They are related yet opposed concepts rooted in nature).

**Yin **is receptive, yielding, negative, and nurturing. It is associated with night, death, femininity, valleys, rivers, streams, water, metal, and earth. (It is the black part of the symbol.)

**Yang **is active, dominating, positive, and initiating/creating. It is associated with day, life, masculinity, mountains, hills, fire, wood, and air. (It is the white part of the symbol.)

*JKR has never revealed the length or core of Draco's wand, just what wood it is made of. I took creative license and liberty with its length.


	4. Cabin Fever

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Four: Cabin Fever_

_No date._

_Writing has become my opiate – my means of escape from the real into the surreal. My thoughts tumble out on paper, jumbled and harsh, like blots of ink smeared on fresh parchment._

_I cannot escape who I am, who I have become, or what I have done. My morals are neither black nor white; instead, they border the ambiguous lines and muddled shades of grey._

_I feel trapped in my own mind, suffocating and gasping for air. I don't know how much longer I can keep it all together. Is it wrong to want to run away from it all?_

Draco put down the journal and rubbed his eyes. He had been reading over the red writing of the prolific diarist for the better part of the day. His eyes had become bloodshot and sore, and he had to squint in order to read the fine writing. He wondered why his fellow belletrist had decided to print so small (and upside down in the back of the journal for that matter). He or she had obviously gone through a lot of trouble to hide his (or her) writings.

The identity of the author or the reasoning behind the madness did not matter to Draco, though. What mattered was the level of comfort he felt with the mirroring thoughts in the journal. He even found a measure of solace in the Weasley girl's presence outside. While she was a dogmatic pain in his arse, and he had not conversed with her once since she broke his wand, it was just a natural comfort to have her nearby. It was nice to know that he was not alone in the world.

The brief interlude of communication had stirred him from his solitude, from the silence he had endured for the past month. Now, having it taken away from him again, he almost longed for it. It was not that he wanted the Weasley girl preaching in his ear every day. It was just that on quiet days like these – of which there were so many – he welcomed the castigation. He would never admit that he was wrong or that he was unjustified; however, he could concede that he wished he had chosen a slightly different path. But the past was the past, and he could not go back and change who he was, even if he had wanted to. Besides, it wasn't like anyone would notice a change in him, least of all the Weasley girl. Her view of him was set in stone; there was no way to change it, and, quite frankly, he didn't want to.

Draco had to admit that the redhead had spunk, but very little else to her credit. She had left his wand in two broken halves on the floor, and when she had quitted the room, he had tenderly picked up the broken pieces and secretly hid the remnants of his power underneath his pillow, along with the journal. He knew that she was attempting to break his spirit. Her first symbolic act had been to destroy his wand, leaving only the body and mind left. He did not wish to work on his mind since it had the habit of wandering back into the abyss where he had placed all of his loneliness, fears, and guilt. Now all that was left was his body. It was something, he supposed – something that he could work on and improve.

Not long after the Weasley girl had arrived, Draco had begun a training regimen of sorts. He began doing push-ups, sit-ups, and even stood his bed up so that he could do chin-ups off the iron bar. The only thing he lacked was room to run and free weights. In lieu of dumbbells, he used the heavy iron urn that stood next to the door. In the end, all of this was just a blatant form of misdirection, distracting him from his true pain and depression.

**-x-**

Ginevra tramped her way up the stairs into her room on the second floor. Making her way to the fireplace, she grabbed the bag of Floo powder that sat at the hearth. She had been in this miserable abode for almost a month now, and Harry had not called her once. He said she would be only there a month, maximum, and, if this were true, then two days from now her time would be served.

Regardless, she was lonely, restless, and going slightly stir crazy. 'Cabin Fever' is what Muggles called it. She just wanted to speak with her boyfriend. They had owled each other back and forth a couple days a week, but letters were not enough. She needed to see him and speak with him. Harry had told her to Floo her in case of emergencies, and while this was not an emergency, she did have questions that needed answers.

She had received an owl from him a few days earlier, informing her that all the wards had finally been lifted from Grimmauld Place. Now he, Ron, and Hermione were staying there, so at least she now knew where to Floo him.

Taking her wand in her right hand, Ginevra lit the dry, stacked wood in the fireplace. As the flames grew brighter, she set down the bag that was in her left hand and reached inside, nipping a pinch of Floo powder to dash into the fire. The flames turned green, and she clearly enunciated her destination: "Harry's room: Grimmauld Place."

Ginevra's face glowed green in the mist, poking out of Harry's fireplace.

"Gin!" Harry exclaimed, getting up from his bed. It was only half past nine in the evening, but he was dead tired. He had spent the entire day in meetings and sitting in on hearings.

"Hey!" Ginevra replied, greeting her sleepy boyfriend. "I know you said not to use the Floo except in case of emergencies, but I just needed to see you and talk with you, you know?" She looked both apologetic and embarrassed for admitting something so personal and girlish.

"No worries, Gin," he returned, smiling. He walked over to the fireplace and sat down. "What's up?"

"I was just wondering," she began, "when do I get to come back home? I mean, when is Malfoy's court date set?"

"Uh, well, we still haven't even discussed it yet," he admitted guiltily.

"What?" she asked, her pitch rising, much like her temper.

"Well, there have been slightly more pressing and urgent matters, such as warding Azkaban, hiring guards, and sentencing Death Eaters," he explained to her in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Malfoy _was_a Death Eater!" she exclaimed, unimpressed with her boyfriend's response.

"Yes, but he never killed anyone," he rejoined, shrugging his shoulders too indifferently for her liking. "We are first dealing with the Death Eaters who killed. Besides, he was under-age when he joined, so we still need to look into the rules for dealing with under-age wizard criminals."

"So, what you're saying is that I could be here for another month?" she asked in disbelief.

"Or more," he answered bluntly.

"What!" She wanted to reach her hands through the fireplace to throttle him.

"I'm sorry, Ginny, but we are seriously backlogged here. It may take a few more months until we can get to Draco's case," he explained, sounding slightly put off by her reaction.

"A few months!" Did Harry seriously expect her to guard Malfoy for several months? She was no jailer.

"I'm really sorry, Gin," he said with sincerity in his voice, his annoyed expression dissolving instantaneously. "I really appreciate what you are doing for us." He suddenly frowned and looked serious. "Malfoy isn't giving you a hard time, is he?"

"No," she replied, still miffed with Harry for not expediting Malfoy's case. "He hasn't been bothering me at all. Of course, I just feed him. That's all."

"Well, it's probably best that way," Harry said, nodding his head thoughtfully. "I will Floo you on the weekend." His eyes then lightened, as if he had just remembered something. "Oh, and I have your letter here." He smiled cheerily as he walked over to his desk, holding up a piece of parchment. "I will owl you back tomorrow."

"Yeah, okay." She grumbled to herself, utterly annoyed and deflated at once. "Oh, Harry!" she called out to him, remembering what she had meant to ask him a long time ago. "You forgot to answer one of my questions in my first owl."

"Oh, what was that?"

"When I went to pack for Godric's Hollow, I noticed that a few of my textbooks were missing – and a few novels. Then I saw some of them in Malfoy's cell." She had an eyebrow cocked in the air, looking mightily peevish.

"Oh, yeah …" Harry paused, looking sheepish. "We were in such a rush to get Malfoy into the house that I just told Ron to grab some books for him to read. We really didn't think it would take this long to get everything sorted."

"Ron, huh?" she asked, sounding sceptical.

"Yeah, I'm really sorry about that, Ginny," he apologised, looking truly apologetic.

"Yeah, whatever."

**-x-**

Draco heard the footsteps approach the door, and he let go of the iron bar, gracefully dropping to the floor. He turned the bed upright with ease and brought a hand to his brow. He very rarely sweat, especially due to exercise, but it was a decidedly muggy mid-July, and the humidity made him perspire regardless of how small his pores were.

He was sure that the Weasley girl had heard the metal scrape against the floor, for she had quickly muttered a spell to open the door to his cell.

"What are you doing in here?" she cried, exasperated, as she strode into the room.

She was wearing a white tank top and matching boy cut shorts. Her copper mane was held back in a loose ponytail, and she looked almost as pale as he did. She also looked tired and cantankerous. Not a good sign.

Draco roughly sized up her demeanour and tone and figured that this meeting with her was not going to bode well for him, so he didn't even bother to answer her. Instead, he went over to the sink and began to wash his face. He grabbed a towel from the tiny counter and began to dry himself. He had wished for a tub of some sort, so that he could have a proper bath. At least the girl gave him clean towels and soap every day. He had to be thankful for the small things.

"Still mute then?" she asked, her voice less cold and domineering than usual.

He had his back to her as he went to lift up his shirt, peel it off, and then throw it into the hamper beside his wardrobe. He was going to act as though she wasn't even there, and he would begin by starting his routine of bathing himself, at least the upper half of his body. Draco Malfy wasn't about to dignify the little blood traitor's small talk with a response.

Ginevra's mouth, however, had dropped open slightly when he took his shirt off right in front of her. She had quickly masked her initial look of shock and averted her eyes. It wasn't the fact that he was undressing in front of her that had startled her most: it was that the once slender, almost effeminate boy was filling out quite nicely. And, when he had turned to the side to toss his shirt, she watched as his muscles rippled. He was not very large or extremely muscular, but he was tight and toned and cut nicely in almost every area.

Draco, though, had not even noticed Ginevra's reaction to his undressing. He was focused on the task at hand. After giving his upper body a quick scrub with the soap, he followed it with a rinse from his cloth and then towelled himself dry. He then walked over to his wardrobe and pulled out a fresh, clean, black polo shirt and donned it without thought. Luckily, the Order had fetched for some of his clothing. He was only given a few pairs of everything, but that was better than wearing one outfit for several months.

"I see you're reading _Wuthering Heights_," she remarked absently. She cleared her throat and walked over to his bed, noticing the book lying open and overturned on his pillow.

Draco snapped his head to the side to follow her path. He hadn't noticed that she had fully come into the room. The door was wide open behind him. He could have made a break for it, but then he figured whoever warded this house wasn't stupid enough to overlook a runaway prisoner. He was most likely being tracked somehow.

"It's a good book," she said, trying to stir some conversation.

Draco figured the girl must have been going out of her mind if she was desperate enough to strike up a dialogue with him.

"Nothing is quite what it seems," she continued. "The main characters are so morally ambiguous, and the—"

"I don't plan on starting a book club with you, Weasley," he interrupted coldly.

He had not meant to say that aloud. This was not because he wished to keep her placated but rather because he had startled himself, as he had not heard his own voice in weeks.

"Right." She glared up at him. She had merely tried to have a conversation, and he had to go and be a git about it. "That Heathcliff was a right evil, selfish bastard," she remarked coldly, striding back towards the door. "You must empathise with him greatly." She gave him her best sneer and then turned around to exit.

"Everything he ever did was for love, for Catherine," he commented quietly, his back to her. He then turned around to face her and saw her eyebrow raised in incredulity at the words he had just spoken. He scowled at his openness with her. "And she was no saint herself!"

His rejoinder had earned him an evil glare from the red-haired Gryffindor, who huffed at Draco and then turned on her heel, slamming the door shut behind her.

Draco cursed under his breath and went over to his bed and sat down in defeat. He hung his head in his hands and sighed. He then sat up and pulled the diary out from underneath his pillow. He opened the book and located the passage that he needed to read.

_Anger, revenge, and morality – all the bastard spawns of pride. We cannot escape our parentage, but we can expiate our sins. The only thing that prevents us is our creator. Can we overcome our hubris? Do we want to? Do I?_

Would pride be his downfall? Why was he holding onto it so dearly, unless it was all that he had left of himself?

* * *

**Author's notes: **Of course any interpretations made of _Wuthering Heights_ (from this point hence) is my own, and one may or may not agree with my lackadaisical analysis. Also, I realise that the whole inmate-working-out bit is rather clichéd, but there is a reason why it is overdone. Draco is a eighteen year old man in his prime – he needs to work out his aggression and depression somehow. I could think of someone he could work it out on …


	5. Reflections

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Five: Reflections_

_No date._

_I stare into the mirror to gaze upon my own reflection. It is not to cater to my vanity but to placate my mind. I worry that one day the ugliness inside will be reflected for others to see. So, I look upon myself in hope that that day will never come._

Draco laid the book upon his chest and tilted his head back against the pillow, letting his body relax and his eyes slide shut. As he began to drift off into sleep, he could not help but ponder upon the passage he had just read. He found himself empathising greatly with his secret diarist's inner struggles. He had so much in common with this person that he felt as though this journal had been written for him. Draco, too, felt the ugliness within himself, a reason why he worked so hard on his exterior. He believed that if he looked good on the outside, it would reflect a positive interior – a type of white-washing for his soul.

Draco knew that he wasn't an evil man, but he wasn't exactly a good man either. He would never be considered righteous or honourable, and the list of noble virtues he possessed was limited at best. Draco Malfoy would never be a hero.

Turning over onto his side, he let out a laboured sigh. He never wanted to be a hero: he just wanted to be noticed, to be recognised for his power and abilities. He thought he'd get his chance at Hogwarts; unfortunately, The Boy Who Lived happened to be in the same year as he, along with that Mudblood Granger. Any chance of earning accolades for academics, magics, or Quidditch went straight out the door with their arrival. Jealousy, envy, and disgust – take your pick – he felt all three emotions when it came to Harry Potter.

There was a reason why he and Potter never became friends. Yes, he had tried, pathetically, to garner the friendship and adulation of the bespectacled tosspot, but only because it would have served a political and social advantage to him. The real reason, however, that they could never come to understand one another was because Potter had never been surrounded by evil and seduced by its power – forced to embrace it. He was truly naïve, in Draco's opinion, and, at times, Draco often wished for such ignorance. He did not want to be Harry Potter. He was no fool. He knew that to be that particular Gryffindor was to accept responsibility his whole life – to constantly face danger, death, heartache, and disappointment. No thanks. He had enough of death.

And then there was the little Weasley girl. How did she get to become such a bigot and a hypocrite? What a waste. She would have made for an excellent Slytherin had she learnt to curb her tongue and temper. Subtly was a much better approach. There was a reason why Slytherins were considered cunning. But perhaps she had always been this way. He had no way of knowing. He had never paid much attention to her at school, except to make fun of her family and her infatuation with Potter. He recalled that she had grown up quite pretty. Blaise Zabini had once commented on how he would have considered the redhead if she weren't a blood traitor. That was saying quite a lot since the golden-eyed boy was even pickier than he.

Although Draco had only seen the She-Weasel intermittently for the past month and a half, he had to admit that his heart beat a little faster whenever she walked into the room. Perhaps it was because he was so unaccustomed to the company, or maybe it was due to the sexual magnetism that seemed to pour off her in waves. He was beginning to question whether he had a thing for feisty, attractive girls. But it was ridiculous to think that he might have a thing for this ruddy girl. She wasn't his taste: she was a self-righteous Weasley – and the breakdown of problems with Weasleys, in general, would generate a list several pages long.

Shaking his head, Draco tried not to think about the girl and settled more comfortably into bed. Once he was finally able to close his eyes and fall asleep, he could not help the small smirk that formed on his lips nor prevent the image of a pale, freckled redhead enter his mind as he began to slip into the realm of dreams.

**-x-**

Ginevra yawned and stretched out on the divan in the parlour. She had begun sleeping downstairs next to Malfoy's cell, as it was much cooler on the first floor than it was on the second. She had entertained the thought of setting up a cot in the cold cellar, but there was a fireplace in the drawing room, and she wanted to be near one in case Harry Flooed her. He hadn't, of course, and it had been several weeks since he last owled her. He had fire-talked with her on the weekend, as promised, but it was for a total of ten minutes. He apologised, telling her that he had to go with Hermione to Azkaban to check on the new wards that they had begun to put in place there. Ginevra was beginning to feel as though Hermione was more of girlfriend to Harry than she was.

Unfortunately, Ginevra was now past the stage of being annoyed at her boyfriend for ignoring her while she was here, alone, with a criminal. She was at the seething with anger stage, coupled with a large dose of bitterness and a dash of depression. In order to take her mind off her personal problems, she had begun to linger around Malfoy's cell, listening for when he raised the bed up to work out or when he would turn on the sink faucet to give himself a 'bath'. She hadn't meant to eavesdrop or seem as though she was stalking him. She was his guard, after all; she was supposed to watch him. Mainly, she did it because she was so bloody bored. Cabin Fever had come and gone, and now she just needed someone to talk to.

Feeling restless, Ginevra got up and switched on the lights. It was odd, to her, to use electricity, although she had quickly accustomed to it. Because of all the wards placed on the Hollow, the house had to be fitted with electricity. An owl from her father indicated that he had helped supervise the event. They brought in Muggle electricians, who must have wondered how such a house had existed for so long without electricity. Her father and a few others had observed the mechanics of the operation and even test-piloted a few appliances. It was quite the spectacle for witch and wizard alike to behold. She imagined her father had been in that Muggle expression of 'Seventh Heaven'.

While musing to herself, Ginevra looked down at the floor and noticed a stream of light coming out from underneath Malfoy's door. She frowned. _He must be reading again, or working out. _

She quietly crept up to the door and put her ear against it. She heard a soft snoring sound and the gentle buzz of the sixty-watt light. He must have fallen asleep with the lamp on. She grimaced and whispered the spell to unlock the door. Weasleys were raised frugal, and she could not have Malfoy drain all this electricity and run up a large bill (her father wrote to her that Muggles actually _pay_ for electricity), so she quietly opened the door and tiptoed inside.

Malfoy was asleep on his side with a book cradled close to his chest. One arm hugged the book while the other was slung back behind his head. Ginevra couldn't help but grin as she watched the blond-haired Slytherin snore silently, his mouth wide open. She reckoned that he could catch a number of flies and spiders sleeping that way.

She quietly walked over to his bedside cabinet to turn off his lamp, when she noticed the journal that he was holding close to his chest. She tentatively reached a hand out to touch it when Malfoy's steel-grey eyes suddenly popped open, and his hand shot out to grab her wrist.

Time seemed to slow down like a heartbeat, seconds ticking away in her breast like a reckoning. She felt his fingers encircle her wrist as he pulled her down towards him, his nose almost touching hers. She went cross-eyed from trying to focus in on his mercury-coloured irises that were narrowed on her, pupils dilated. She swallowed hard and suppressed the urge to squeak aloud as his soft, blond eyelashes fluttered against her forehead, causing a tingling sensation to ripple throughout her entire body.

The brief contact unnerved her, and she foolishly dropped her wand and tried to draw back away from him. She was sure that he was going to kill her, but then he absently let go of her hand and sat up, blinking back the tiredness in his eyes. The book tumbled off his chest, and he caught it before she could. He then quickly brought it underneath the covers of his blanket.

"You surprised me," he said hoarsely, recovering his voice as he raked his fingers through his long, fine white-blond hair.

"And you me," she replied, squaring her jaw as she bent down to pick up her wand to pocket it, eyeing him cautiously. Why did he not overpower her and take her wand, and why did he let go of her wrist so suddenly? "I just came to turn off your light."

His soft brow creased, and he gave her look that indicated, to Ginevra, that she had just said the stupidest thing in the world to him. She cleared her throat and looked down and to the left. His gazes made her uncomfortable. She had to remember that she was in charge of him, not the other way around.

"So, what are you reading?" she finally asked softly, unable to hide her interest, and loneliness.

Draco blinked twice and turned his head away from her, ignoring her question as he looked over at the mirror directly behind her.

Ginevra glared down at him. "You're still being reticent then?" she asked, annoyed at his refusal to speak.

She then directed her attention to the mirror, following his gaze, seeing her own reflection aside his. He wasn't even looking at her. He was just staring at himself in the mirror like some narcissistic ponce.

"Merlin, I have never seen a man so in love with himself!" She could not stand the fact that he was ignoring her, even though she was standing directly in front of him. "Take a good long look, Malfoy," she spat, pointing at the mirror, "because that's all you've got left: your looks!"

He furrowed his brow and ground his teeth, trying desperately not to pay attention to the spiteful redhead in front of him.

"You have nothing now, Malfoy!" she added coldly, the fire rising inside her.

All she had wanted to do was have a conversation with him. Instead, he chose to be a vain prick and ignore her, gazing at his own reflection in the mirror.

"No father, no friends, no power," she said, listing, never ceasing her harping. "They have all abandoned you, Malfoy."

She examined him with borderline glee, narrowing her eyes on him, and he could do nothing but dig his nails into his palms as she pressed on.

"You are a sorry excuse for a human being, and you deserve whatever sentence you get and more. You are beyond redemption!" she spat vehemently. "You're not even worth saving."

She stomped towards the door as he sat on his bed in front of the mirror, his arms rigid at his sides, his fists clenched in fury. Once she got to the door, she turned around to look, to stare him down. Her eyes were full of venom and fire. She just couldn't let it go. She was a dog with a bone – relentless and persistent. She had to let her insults ring soundly in his ears one last time:

"At least you have your looks!"

* * *

**Author's notes:** Foot, I'd like to introduce you to Mouth. Please insert now. Normally, it is always Draco screwing up everything. Well, I thought I'd let Ginny take the reigns this time.

* * *

**Technical note: **I have no idea how long it would take to have a house fitted and wired for electricity, and I also have no clue if hydro runs anywhere in or near Godric's Hollow. But in the case of this time-constricted fic, I decided to take creative license (again) and make it a relatively short process with the town already supplied with/set up for hydro. What can I say? I'm a fanfic witch—I can do that kinda stuff! _Abracadabra_! …_ Shirtless_ Draco!


	6. Scarred

**Prelude to an Affair**

_Chapter Six: Scarred_

_"At least you have your looks!"_

Draco let her cruel words splinter his mind, allowing the emotional wound to fester and infect his psyche. He had been prepared for a verbal assault, a lengthy diatribe on the errors of his ways and how he had allowed himself to be led down the path of sin. But, this – _this_ – he had not expected. For her to brazenly declare who he _was_ at Hogwarts or who he is now – a prisoner – was one thing; to tell him what he has lost what little he has left was something entirely different. She wasn't reopening a healed wound; she was creating a new one.

Frustrated, Draco grabbed the diary that he had hidden underneath the sheets and pitched it against the wall. It bounced back and flipped open, landing just a few feet in front of him. The momentary and fleeting feelings of shock were quickly replaced with anger – he was positively livid. How dare that impudent peasant slander his name? What did she know about him? Nothing!

Why did she say it, then? She had spoken the words in anger, in hate, to hurt him. She had done an excellent job, for her words were actually able to harm him. In a magical world such as the one they lived in, he should have realised how powerful words are and how devastating the truth can be.

The sanctimonious little She-Weasel had it spot on. Leave it to her to rip out his soul and thoughtlessly toss it onto the ground like it was trash. He really didn't have anyone. His father was being sentenced to Azkaban and his mother too for all he knew. Crabbe was dead, and Goyle was missing. Zabini and Nott were two men in the clear who, clearly, would want nothing to do with him, who would refuse any association. So, who, exactly, did he have? What did he have to look forward to?

Rising to his feet, Draco strode over to where the mirror was on the wall and stared at his own reflection. It was all lies. He was trying to make himself look better in order to hide how he felt on the inside: ugly. He didn't want to admit that the Weasley girl was right. But was she really? Was he truly a man beyond redemption? He had not even begun to list the litany of his sins let alone start down the path towards atonement. Could he be forgiven? Did he want to be?

The simple fact of the matter was that everything Draco had ever done – every malicious deed – was what he had to do to survive. Period. He was no Harry Potter; he wasn't trying to save the world. He was trying to save his family, the ones he loved the most. Draco could boast no Good Samaritan Award, no Hogwarts' Mister Congenial title, no accolade of any kind. In the back of his mind, he always knew that he was a product of his environment, of breeding and fortune (or misfortune). But this did not make him evil; it made him human.

Weasley had no clue, no idea as to what it was like to be forced to live his life. She had the luxury of ignorance, of only being able to see in black and white. For her there was no middle ground, no shades of grey. There were only good guys against bad guys, good versus evil. When she looked at him, she saw a monster. Fine. He could live with that. But what he couldn't tolerate is what _he_saw.

Was his reflection in the mirror real or imagined?

Without warning or thought, Draco smashed his fist into the mirror, causing it to shatter into several large, jagged pieces. He drew his hand back and watched as the mirror collapsed onto itself and slid down the wall. The wooden frame splintered and cracked apart, crashing to the floor where it finally settled into a crumpled heap.

He slumped down to his knees before the jagged shards of mockery, his broken image staring back up at him. He brought his hand to his face to brush away his hair when he noted a burning sensation. Flexing his fingers, he looked down at his fist to see that the knuckles were already blackened and bloody. He had broken his middle two knuckles, and a deep gash ran over the back of his fingers like a tattoo. There were tiny shards of mirror stuck in his skin like glass splinters, twinkling a carmine red.

Frowning, Draco watched the blood pour down his hand in rivulets, dripping onto the floor and pooling around the edges of the journal that he had just thrown haphazardly against the wall. He glanced down at the open book. Drops of blood had splattered onto the paper, mixing with a dried brown stain that had previously marred the page.

As the crimson liquid softly plopped down on the open page, like rain gently falling on newspaper, his eyes began to register and focus on the words. The print was large, unlike the tiny compartmentalised scribbling of the previously read entries. Here, there were only two lines on the page:

_"If only I could cut out this disease inside me and let my sins be poured out through my blood. I would endure the pain and the disfigurement if it meant that I could be free – if it meant that I would no longer be alone."_

Draco let his bloodied hand drop to the floor and hung his head in hopeless defeat. If that was not a sign, he didn't know what was.

Turning his head, he glanced down at a broken piece of mirror that crudely reflected his image in the dim light. Long, fine strands of white-blond hair hung in his silver eyes, touching down to his angular, pointed nose. His lips were a pale pink: the top one thin, and the bottom one full. His alabaster cheekbones were high and sculpted – an almost flawless image if it weren't for the smear of blood on his right cheek.

He was handsome, and he knew it. Everyone else said it, and he was fairly certain that even the Weasley girl thought it.

Swallowing hard, Draco stared at his reflection at length, as though he could bore through it with his mind and set his own image ablaze by sheer strength of will and determination.

Yes, he was handsome. So, why did he feel so ugly?

Draco closed his eyes and sighed, shaking his head as though this action alone could help rid the disturbing thoughts swimming in his mind. He opened his eyes and looked down to his left, slowly reaching out with his fingertips to touch a jagged shard of glass on the floor. One last time, he stared at his distorted reflection.

"I will not be alone," he whispered.

In the solitude of his cell, Draco sat up and stared blankly, almost hypnotically, into a broken mirror, coming to the horrible realisation that he hadn't inadvertently tumbled down the rabbit hole – he had been thrown down it.

Draco Malfoy: Slytherin, Death Eater.

Pitiful. It was all a joke. Is that who he was, who he _is_? No.

True clarity, he discovered, came when one realised how worthless of a pawn one truly was in the scheme of things. In the past, what Draco had believed in was power, dominance, and intimidation. Now he had no beliefs, no cause. He was gunslinger without a gun; he was a pilgrim without a journey. Now it was more important than ever for him to overcome his feelings of fear and self-doubt. He refused to let the ugliness inside take over. There were more to him than a pretty face and a name earned through birthright alone.

Draco picked up the broken shard and gripped it tightly in his non-injured hand. Ironic, he thought, was that it was in these defining moments that he could shape and recreate himself – carving out a new image.

He brought the shard up, just below the eye, and he dug the blade in deep, accepting the wet release – ready to meet the inner man.

* * *

**Author's notes:** I'd like to state that I am not endorsing or condoning self-inflicted pain of any kind, including masochism, flogging, cutting, etcetera. I also want to add that writing the last two lines unnerved even _me_ a little.


	7. Breathe

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Seven: Breathe_

_Just breathe_, Ginevra told herself, pacing the length of the bedroom upstairs.

She had been trying to mollify her anger the moment she stormed out of Malfoy's cell. She had not meant to berate him like that. Sure, he was an evil git who deserved to be punished for what he has done in the past, but in the entire two months he had been her prisoner, he had not once said a word against her, never provoked her in any way. She had been the one picking fights, and he had done and said nothing to stop her. In fact, he had _let_her berate him, brooking the humiliation.

Ginevra finally stopped pacing and sat down on the bed, resting her head in her hands. She sighed. Why did she let him get to her so easily? What had she expected from him, an apology? This was the same Draco Malfoy who used to tease her relentlessly and thought that he was Merlin's gift to the wizarding world. She should have known that prison would never humble a Malfoy. It was stupid and foolish of her to be worked up over such trivial things, especially over him not talking to her.

Standing up, she stretched and arched her back, shaking her head as she tried not to think about the grey-eyed blond downstairs and what she had said to him in anger. Like it affected him on any level. Nothing she had said had filtered through. He probably blocked out every word she uttered, so she really had nothing to feel guilty about. She had to remind herself that he deserved to be locked up and that she was justified in her treatment of him. Still, he had done nothing to her. He had been a model inmate his entire incarceration.

She turned to the door and stepped out onto the landing to begin her descent down the stairs towards the kitchen. Flicking on the light, Ginevra headed over to the refrigerator to open the door and peer inside. She then began to rummage through the cupboards, gathering what she needed to put together a simple meal in hope that delivering this offering of truce would assuage her guilt – what she wasn't supposed to be feeling but did. She wasn't sure why, but the need to apologise in some small way seemed necessary.

Juggling the tray with one hand, she fished her wand out of her pocket and walked over to Draco's cell. With a simple spell, she unlocked the door and balanced the tray of food on her hip as she opened the door so that she could step inside. The plate of food and glass of milk crashed to the floor.

"Malfoy!" Ginevra gasped, rushing over to his bed.

Draco Malfoy was propped up against the bed with his arms dangling limply at his sides. He sat surrounded by shards of broken glass and a pool of crimson liquid that appeared to be blood. His face was covered in it.

"What did you do?" she asked helplessly, falling to her knees as she tried to staunch the bleeding with her fingers.

He moaned slightly and turned his head. The blood was so dark that it almost looked black. She did not know how deep the gash on his face was, but she did not see bone; however, that wasn't exactly encouraging.

Getting back up on her feet, she ran over to the sink and turned on the faucet, filling a small bowl that she found on the counter. She turned off the tap and grabbed a face cloth and towel, hurriedly stepping back over to the blond-haired boy, who was still slumped in front of his bed like a dead bumblebee.

"What did you do?" she asked again, softly this time, dipping the face cloth in the water and wringing it out. She dabbed at his face tenderly, trying to remove the blood.

"You _do_ have a wand," he remarked blandly with a hint of sarcasm, breaching the silence, and she almost laughed at her own stupidity.

"Right." She drew out her wand from her back pocket. "_Tergeo_," she muttered, washing the blood away from his face.

She could see a nasty inch and a half long gash from just below his right eye reaching to the parallel of his upper lip.

"_Episkey_!" she said, pointing her wand at the wound and watching as it began to knit and heal.

She then directed the same spell at his fingers and looked back up at his face again, touching it gently, almost tenderly. She could see that there was still a distinct scar on his face, so she jumped up and ran out into the parlour where she kept a bag of medicinal herbs. When she returned with the Dittany, she got back down on her knees beside Draco, bringing her hand down to his face to administer the salve.

He caught her arm in one swift motion, clasping onto her wrist with his iron grip. "Leave it," he said darkly, both steel-grey eyes fixed on her, the right eye bloodshot.

"Why?" she asked, surprised by his lack of emotion or pain.

The gash was deep and undoubtedly painful. If she did not put Dittany on the wound now, he would be scarred for life.

"I will _not_ be alone," he replied softly, and then turned his head to the side, looking down as he released her wrist.

"Alone?" she queried, a puzzled expression on her face.

She did not understand how not being alone meant that he had to be permanently scarred. She couldn't fathom why he had cut himself, and then she followed his gaze to the floor where she spotted the leather-bound book that she thought she had seen a glimpse of the first night she had arrived there. The journal pages were spotted with blood, both fresh and old. Familiar loops of writing looked up at her, and it was in that moment that she knew.

The silence between them both was pregnant, almost poignant, until she finally breached the quiet and gently took his hand in hers, causing him to look up at her in apprehension and wonder.

"You are not alone," she whispered.

The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could take them back. His hand was held in hers, and there was no turning back. She saw the look of pain and regret in his eyes, and she knew that she had to save him. She had to offer a piece of herself, something he unknowingly already had: her diary.

"I know what you are going through," she began, and he snorted, letting his hand go limp in hers but not trying to remove it. "There was a darkness inside me that I thought I could purge. There was an ugliness inside my soul that I wanted to rip out of me."

He slowly turned his face upward, searching for truth in her almond-shaped eyes. There was confusion at first, and then recognition.

"That diary is mine," she explained, swallowing hard as she pointed to the bloodstained journal on the floor. She had never opened up to anyone like this before, and the last person she had expected to start with was Malfoy. "This …" She paused. "I wrote it last year."

Draco raised his left eyebrow, causing his right cheek to lower, allowing for a tiny droplet of blood to escape from the newly-mended wound.

"Were you not … possessed by the Dark Lord in your first year?" he asked somewhat hesitantly.

Ginevra nodded her head in affirmation. She assumed that he knew about the diary and the possession through his father since he was the one who gave her Riddle's diary.

"Yes, I was," she answered. "And I vowed to never keep a journal again after that." She looked down and smiled sadly. "But never is a long time, and I grew restless on my own."

She had stayed at the school until Easter holidays, until her parents had forced her to go into hiding. In those seven months before, however, she had seen _and_done some terrible things – things that she would have rather forgot.

"Restless?" he asked.

"I spent most of my time with Neville and Luna and other members of the DA that we could muster, but …" She paused. "There were some times when I was alone with … people … that I would not like to have been." She was still looking down at her lap as she said this, failing to meet his eyes that had narrowed in disgust, accentuating his marred features.

"Who hurt you?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

She looked up, startled. "Oh, the usual bunch – mainly Slytherins."

Draco rolled his eyes. "So, all of us are a bad lot then?"

"No," she responded hesitantly, and now he looked up. "Zabini and Nott were never especially unkind, nor were Davis and Greengrass. They had to maintain a front, I think, but they never did anything more than insult."

"There was more than insulting?" he asked, his voice somewhat on edge. "They beat you?"

"No – well, yes, I suppose … as an end result," she replied, fumbling for words.

She glanced up to see him staring into her eyes with a certain knowing look. It was a look that made her uncomfortable and exposed, one that made her wonder if he could see right through her.

"Their _sole_ objective wasn't to physically hurt me," she stated, and again he stared at her long and hard.

"So, that is why your thoughts are so dark in the journal," he stated quietly. "These people did things to you that made you feel dirty and ugly."

Ginevra winced at the familiarity he had with her now because of her diary. How much did he know? Did he know about how many times she had to serve 'detention' with the Carrows, how often she had come back, bloodied and shaken, and not because the Cruciatus Curse had been performed on her? No one knew these things. No one had ever entered her mind, her thoughts, after Tom. But now Malfoy had because he had read her innermost fears and desires that she had so foolishly – once again – recorded on paper. She suddenly felt quite naked and vulnerable sitting before the bloodied and scarred boy.

"Yes, but …" She paused and then scowled. "I wasn't a wallflower, you know. I wasn't some damsel in distress waiting for my knight-in-shining-armour to show up and save me!" She lifted her chin defiantly in the air.

"I've noticed," he retorted blandly yet softly, causing her to lower her defensive guard somewhat.

"I fought back," she said, frowning. "I did some equally terribly things, and I … I liked it."

His eyes momentarily widened at her revelation.

"It was like with Tom," she explained with a hint of revelry and excitement in her tone. "He had given me power, allowed for me to see the darker side of myself – my potential." She took in a deep breath and looked down, trying to control her animation. "Oh, I tried for so many years to convince myself that it was his spell over me – old magic." She laughed bitterly. "I suppose, in some way, it was. But the hunger for that power and the thirst for the feeling of being free to do whatever I wanted – those feelings were a part of me. I craved the darkness and the danger of it all. I didn't care about the others or what they did to me. Danger became my drug; it was an adrenalin rush combined with a sugar high – so delectably divine."

Draco watched in abject amazement and horror as she told her tale. The entire time she had been talking, her voice and face had subtly altered. When she spoke of the Dark Lord and of the power and darkness that haunted her, she almost appeared to be giddy with remembrance. She seemed to be an entirely different person.

"And, so now that is over?" he asked incredulously, after she had finished speaking. "Has being with Potter changed it all for you?" There was a hint of bitterness and annoyance in his tone.

"No," she replied honestly, frowning now as she looked down at her hands, seeming to come to from her reverie.

Draco nodded his head and looked down at his own hands, feeling a sense of calm and accomplishment in their mangled remains and the blood that pooled beside him. For the time-being, they had nothing more to say to one another, so they sat together in the silence of a mutual understanding: feeling pain was better than feeling numb, better than feeling nothing at all.

* * *

**Author's notes: **For once, Ginny was not a bitch (yay!), and maybe we have discovered one of the reasons why she has been. You will find out more about what happened to Ginny in her sixth year at Hogwarts in the next chapter.

* * *

_Tergeo_ - 'to wipe, scour, clean'. Siphons material, like blood, from a surface.

_Episkey_ - 'to repair, restore'. Used to heal relatively minor injuries.


	8. Starting Over

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Eight: Starting Over_

_"If I could start again, a million miles away, I would keep myself. I would find … a way."_ – Johnny Cash's version of NIN's _Hurt._

They spent the entire night talking, right into the early hours of morning. Draco could sense the loneliness reflecting off her waves, mirroring his own sense of loss and confusion. He never dreamt of the day when he would be sitting in a pool of his own blood on the dirty floor of a prison cell, talking with the Weasley girl about life and all its disappointments. If stranger things had been known to happen, he assumed that was a relatively short and mind-boggling list.

How he had come to discussing intimate details with the redhead, and she with him, was beyond unnatural, beyond the surreal. He hadn't even known what her first name was until his last year at Hogwarts when the Carrows had brought in everyone's personal files for select ranks of Slytherins to peruse. He, Blaise, Pansy, and Theo had been given the task of sorting out who was pure-blood and who was half-blood in each House.

He had come across the Ginevra's file, and Pansy had snorted at the name and ridiculed it, wondering why everyone called her Ginny. She had assumed that the name had been shortened for Virginia. Draco, like Blaise and Theo, had merely shrugged his shoulders, uninterested. He never thought much of the little Gryffindor while at Hogwarts. She was just another Weasley, another Potter-worshipper. Although he had not seen much of her during his last year at school, he had an inkling of where she was most of the time. He had known that she had got into trouble a few times with the Carrows – for numerous and, he was sure, pointless reasons – and with Snape for trying to steal Godric Gryffindor's sword. He had not known, however, that she was being abused.

Draco wasn't naïve or stupid. He knew what the Carrows were and what Crabbe and Goyle and other Slytherins were doing to the other students, specifically Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. They were torturing them, using the Cruciatus Curse on them for kicks. He did not, however, suspect any sexual abuse, but then he never served or even observed detentions. He spent most of his time at school alone, near the lake or the Shrieking Shack. He thought that disentangling himself from others' crimes would make him less culpable.

He was wrong.

In his mind, he began to go over the vague details that Ginevra had offered him. He knew that she did not want to share something so personal with him, something that she most likely had told no other – had just recorded in her journal with the thought of never mentioning it aloud. She had done this, however, for _him_, to make him understand that he was not alone in his pain. After all that he and his family had done to her and her own, all the anger that she had built up inside, she had managed to swallow it and press it deep down inside herself for one night – one night in which she would offer a piece of herself to him. He was afraid to ask why.

Quiet frankly, it made him sick to his stomach thinking that someone had tried to violate her or any woman for that matter. He may have been a bully, but Draco was a firm believer that a wizard should never raise a hand to a witch. He could guess at who all had harmed her and what was done or even what was attempted, but the thought that he was once friends with these people made him feel guilty and ashamed, as if he had helped perform the deeds himself. Perhaps that is why she took such pleasure in punishing him. She needed someone to place the blame on, and he had brought the Death Eaters into the school, after all.

The wave of revulsion that he felt in the pit of his stomach amplified as he began to realise that the anger he felt towards the people who harmed the Weasley girl wasn't just on general principle alone. It was because the sick and unforgivable actions of a barbarous few had _made_ her this way – had made her resentful and angry. What he was seeing now, this gentle and empathetic creature before him, was the _real_ Ginevra before life beat her down. _This _girl he wanted to protect, and he had no idea why.

It was true that he had begun to form a sort of respect for the witch as she told her tale in person and on paper. Her words, written in the diary, had provided him with comfort and solidarity. He found himself admiring her tenacity and strength, her unwillingness and refusal to be broken. She did not surrender; she was relentless as she was obstinate. She had been cunning and resourceful, two traits needed to be able to survive and fight back in a school of Death Eaters. It was a bit too Gryffindor for his liking – the fighting a losing battle part – but she had some true Slytherin to her. There was bite behind her bark.

Shaking his head, Draco sighed to himself. He was, admittedly, getting soft. This place was finally starting to affect him if he was comparing a Gryffindor to a Slytherin in a positive light.

He shifted in his seat, turning slight to steal a glance at Ginevra, watching her rest her head back against the mattress with her eyes closed as the glare of the sun began to peek its way through the window. He tilted his head and observed how the light made a warm glow on her cheeks, illuminating the brilliant shine of her auburn hair. Before, he hadn't noticed how serene and calm she looked while at ease (when not yelling at him). Up until this point, he had only seen her fly off the handle or point a wand or a finger at his face in a threatening or self-righteous manner, her eyes ablaze with fury.

Furrowing his brow at his own thoughts, he crossed his arms over his now-broad chest and frowned. Why could he not stop looking at her? While she wasn't extraordinary, he had to admit that she was exceptional, in her own way. There was something childlike and irresistibly feminine about her when she was still. He had yet to see her smile or laugh, and he doubted that he would be afforded such an opportunity. The soft creases at the corners of her almond-shaped eyes and the faint lines in the middle of her cheeks hinted that she did indeed smile. Quite a lot, he assumed. Simple features, considered flaws to some, he found endearing on her, even attractive.

When she finally opened her eyes and took in a deep breath, Draco quickly turned his face and averted his eyes should she decide to glance over at him. Instead, she made to get up, and he turned his attention back to her and absently reached out to grab her hand.

Perplexed, she glanced down down at his fingers closed around her wrist. She did not protest nor move to wrest her hand from his. Instead, she parted her lips and made to speak; however, the words – whatever they would have been – would not come out.

"Why did you stop writing?" he asked, searching for any question that would make her stay a little while longer.

"Harry," she replied quietly. He lowered his eyes and let go of her hand. "He came back, and … well, it was time to stop those sort of things."

He gave a short laugh through his nose, his chest puffing outwards.

"What?" she asked, sitting down on the bed.

"So, it was time to put the mask back on and be Potter's girl?" he asked, turning his beautifully marred face up at her.

She opened her mouth again and then closed it. After a moment, she settled on pursing them together in a thin line that almost resembled a frown. "It was not an act," she finally retorted in a defensive tone.

"Sure," he said softly, nodding his head. "He's your soul mate then, yeah?"

Ginevra's frown intensified.

"He knows all about what happened to you at Hogwarts while he was gone?" A characteristic smirk rose to his lips, and a gleam came to his cloudy eyes. "You think he _cares _to know?"

He knew that he was overstepping his bounds with her, but he had to know, he had to find out what was so bloody fantastic about The Boy Who Lived Twice. What could Potter give her that he couldn't? Why could no one else be given a chance, and why was he even asking himself such questions?

"And what are you proposing, Malfoy?" she asked, gesturing with her hands. "That you know; that you _care_; that you can relate?"

He quickly reached out and grabbed her wrist once more, pulling her down towards him, effectively cutting off her line of questioning. She gasped at his touch, and then, just as suddenly as he reached out to grab her, he turned her arm over to expose it. Faint, tiny white scars lined the inside of her forearm. He knew that she had tried to conceal them, that she had been quick with the Dittany and the lies.

He felt the same pain; he _could_ relate, thank-you-very-much.

"And these?" He almost growled the words as she turned her face away from him. "Does he know about _these_?" He didn't know why he was so angry with her for these tiny scars, but he was. He was furious. "We have more in common than you think, Weasley." His hard, aquiline features had softened for a moment. "You know that. That is why you told me I was not alone."

"I'm not proud of what I did," she whispered, eyes dry as she studied his fingers that were wrapped around her slender wrist.

"Neither am I," he rejoined, "but then I have a lot more to feel guilty about, don't I?" His laugher was bitter. "Perhaps this will be my ever-lasting reminder." He pointed to his scar with his free hand.

Shaking her head, Ginevra bit her lip. "You know, you could always do something about the guilt," she offered softly, the look of empathy so apparent in her big brown eyes. "Make amends."

"How?" Draco asked harshly, letting go of her arm to stare up at her with unrestrained bitterness. "And would that really change who I am inside?" He shook his head and looked up at her seriously. "Weasley …" He paused and swallowed. "Ginevra." Her head snapped up to meet his dark eyes. "Do you believe in second chances? Do you think that someone can change who he is, on the inside?"

"If a person really wanted to, I think so," she answered without hesitation, remembering Fred and George for some odd reason. "You can do anything, if you have the nerve."

He sighed and looked down at his hands, nodding his head in understanding, almost in appreciation. "If I could start again," he muttered and then paused, lowering his head. "No, that's the past. There's nothing I can do to change what has happened, what I have done."

"You're right, Malfoy," she replied softly, and his head seemed to drop even lower. "You can't go back in time and fix your mistakes."

Suddenly, Ginevra reached over and took Draco's hand in hers, like she had when she first came through the cell door hours before. While the look she had given him earlier was one of sympathy and possibly even that of pity, the look she was giving him now caused the rotted knot in his stomach to loosen, if only just a little.

"But you _can_ start over," she said forcefully and determinedly, squeezing his hand reassuringly as she smiled up at him.

Draco could not help but let the ghost of a sad smile touch his lips in return, for the look she had given him was enough; the look she had given him was hope.

* * *

**Author's notes: **Looks like someone's beginning to melt a little. As for Ginny, we finally begin to see, from Draco's point of view, one of the reasons why she is so bitter. We also see more of the fanon Ginny that we all love: the girl who is empathetic. Where was she hiding? Silly girl, welcome back!


	9. Mea Culpa

_**Shade of Grey**_

_Chapter Nine: Mea Culpa_

_"No one knows what it's like to feel these feelings, like I do. And I blame you." _– _Behind Blue Eyes_ by The Who.

Some birthdays are just not worth celebrating. It could be a day like any other day, a let-down like any other; however, when something depressing happens to you on your birthday, it makes it all the more poignant and all the more disappointing. Ginevra's birthday would become a sobering experience, to say the least.

Tucking the letter underneath her pillow, she sighed, holding back tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. She hugged her pillow instead, burying her face into the crisp white linen, stifling the sobs that racked her body with pain. She had never spent a birthday away from home, without her family, and she never thought she would miss them as much as she did today.

Presents and letters littered the parlour floor. Everyone had remembered; everyone had congratulated her. Everyone but Harry. She knew that he was busy and forgetful. He had never celebrated her birthday with her in the past, as he had never spent a full summer at the Burrow. But it was hard for her to overlook the fact that Harry had never forgot Ron's or Hermione's birthday. Ginevra was supposed to be his girlfriend, for Merlin's sake! Shouldn't he know? Shouldn't he care to enquire?

She brought the letter back out from underneath the pillow and stared at it. Harry had sent her a note asking her how she was doing and that he missed her. He also wanted a report on Malfoy's behaviour. No, 'Happy Birthday, Ginny'; no, 'I love you, Ginevra'.

She laughed bitterly. He probably didn't even know her actual given name. He cared more about Malfoy than her!

Ginevra crumpled up the letter in her fist and threw it into the fireplace. She trained her wand on it and lit the parchment on fire. As she watched the paper burn and turn into ash, she drew her knees up to her chest and buried her face in her legs, crying bitterly at what a lonely and wretched being she had become.

**-x-**

Draco tried to ignore the gentle sobs that came from the other side of the door. The walls were thin, and he was accustomed to the silence, which made her soft crying all the more deafening. As much as he tried to shut the noise out, he couldn't. He could feel her pain almost as if it were his own.

He didn't know why he felt such empathy toward her. She was his captor, his jailer. Why should he care? He shouldn't, but he did. He wondered why she, of all people, was crying. He had never known her to be anything but stubborn, determined, and strong. Not that he knew her well, but he somehow figured that if anyone were to break down and cry it would be him, not her.

He got up from the bed and began to walk towards the door. The sobbing abruptly stopped, and he could hear her sniffle and get up, making her way towards his cell. He stepped back and went over to the sink to wash his hands, attempting to look preoccupied and not as though he had just been eavesdropping like he really was.

She knocked on the door and there was a pause. He slowly turned around and strangled out an, "Enter", in confusion and in shock, as she had never knocked before.

It had only been a couple of days since they had their 'talk', since he had … cut himself. She had been careful to check his dressing twice a day – always gentle and quiet. He knew that not much had changed between them: she was still wary and suspicious of him. It was foolish of him to believe that in one night she had come to empathise with him completely. She was not his friend, and he was not hers. He began to wonder if that one night was just a fluke, a one-time occurrence. The hardening knot in the pit of his stomach made him wish that this were not true.

She turned the knob and opened the door, stepping inside. Her eyes were red and puffy. There was no doubt that she had been crying, and she hadn't exactly tried to conceal this knowledge. He wondered why she was letting him see her like this. He supposed that he wasn't important enough for her to hide her emotions from.

"You have a letter," she announced softly, walking over to hand him the rolled up piece of parchment.

He took the letter and lowered his head, trying hard not to ask her whom it was from. He would have to wait until she left so that he could read it and find out.

"After you have read the letter, would you like to take a bath?" she asked, and his head shot up in surprise.

"Yes," he replied, without any hesitation.

She smiled a little and sniffed, looking somewhat amused by his response. "I figured you wouldn't say no," she retorted, turning to leave and give him his privacy. "Just knock on the door when you want to go up." Nodding sadly, she turned and left.

Draco stared at the closed door for a moment and then glanced down at his letter. He went over to his bed and turned on the lamp, even though it was not night yet – it was still bright and sunny outside. As he began to unroll the parchment, he scowled. It was a letter from his mother. At least it was her signature at the bottom, her cursive script. Her message, however, was mostly blotted out, censored.

_My beloved son,_

_I deeply regret not being able to send a letter or word to you on your birthday as I was **censored censored censored censored censored censored.**_

_Your father and I **censored censored censored censored censored censored.** I hope that you have received the news that **censored censored censored censored censored censored.**_

_Know that we love you very much, Draco._

_My thoughts are with you, always._

_Love,_

_Your Mother_

Draco crumpled the parchment in his fist and threw it against the wall. His only letter from his mother in months, and the Ministry censored the whole bloody thing – blotting out everything with black ink.

"Fucking Potter!" Draco screamed, kicking at his metal trash bin, finding blame with one person.

He picked up his lamp, pulling the cord out of the socket, and threw it against the wall, watching it explode into several jagged pieces. However, his anger could not be sated with the lamp. He had to do more to assuage his boiling rage.

Turning to his bed, Draco flipped the iron-sprung mattress over, throwing it against the wall as he gave it a sound thrashing. He then walked over to his sink and threw the porcelain bowl against the door, grinning at the harsh sound it made as it shattered against the wood.

"Fucking Ministry!" he swore again, something most uncharacteristic of him.

He then stormed over to the bookcase and began to grab his sparse collection of literature off the rack, tearing the covers off the books that he could grab a hold of, ripping the pages out in large clumps.

"WHAT IS GOING ON?" Ginevra's shrill voice cried out, ringing in his ears, causing him to drop the textbook in his hand.

Draco's eyes narrowed on the redhead, who had now fully entered the room. Her mouth was ajar as she surveyed the damage, her wand gripped tightly in her small hand. He wanted to lunge forward and rip the wood out of her grasp and train it on her, to make her feel what he had been feeling since he has been incarcerated here: hopelessness, frustration, and despair. How he wished he could make her understand how trapped he felt.

"I thought I'd redecorate!" he roared back at her facetiously, picking yet another book from the shelf and tearing its cover off.

She blenched and immediately leapt forward, bringing her hand out to snatch the book from his hands. He reacted instinctively and nimbly to a step back, drawing his arms away to prevent her from stealing the book. He reached for another, but she was quicker this time.

"Those are _my_ books, Malfoy!" she cried indignantly, wresting the copy of _Wuthering Heights _from his less-than-tenacious grip and hugging it close to her chest with her free hand.

He suddenly stopped what he was doing and turned around to face her completely. "These are _yours_?" he asked incredulously, frowning as he absently crumpled a loose leaf of paper in his fist and let it drop to the floor.

She creased her brow and glared up at him. Tightening her grip on her wand, she flicked her wrist and sent the mangled remains of the books into a messy pile in the corner of the room.

"Yes, they _were_," she replied tersely behind clenched teeth. As she turned around to face him, she trained her wand on him once more. "Now, I will ask again: _what_ is going on here?"

Draco scowled and walked over to the sink, swiping his cup and toothbrush off the counter in anger. "That lovely letter you gave me was from my mother." His voice was filled with venom, causing Ginevra to frown. "I would love to read it to you," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he dramatically clasped his hands together in front of his body, "but the Ministry saw it fit to censor every bloody word she wrote!" He turned around and leaned his back against the counter, bringing his arms up to his chest to fold them over in a haughty manner.

Ginevra took a step forward and lowered her wand. "It was just a letter," she reasoned softly.

He looked down at her with pure contempt in his eyes. "Just a letter from my mother, who may or may not be in Azkaban for all I know! She wasn't even allowed to tell me!" He curled his fists in rage. "The only letter I have received since I have been here – my only contact with the outside world!"

He toed a large chunk of porcelain beneath his boot and kicked it across the room, listening to it smash and break against the wall.

"It wasn't _just_ some letter to me, Weasley," he said in an almost too low voice.

Ginevra swallowed hard and sighed. She, more than anyone, understand what he felt. They were not _just_ letters. They were their only contact with the ones they loved. It was wrong for the Ministry to send him a censored letter. It probably would have been best to have never sent him anything at all.

"It just figures, you know," he began, clearing his throat as he stood up and pushed himself away from the counter. "Potter's got to hurt me any way he can to get his bloody revenge."

"What makes you think Harry has anything to do with this?" she asked, outraged.

"What makes you think he _isn't_ involved?" he retorted. "He _is _the Ministry now. He's been out to get my family ever sin—"

"Oh, bloody well grow a pair, Malfoy!" she barked, cutting him off.

Draco's mouth hung open in shock. He quickly snapped it shut and prepared himself to launch a verbal assault against the vitriolic Gryffindor standing before him, but she beat him to the punch.

"You want to blame everyone for everything!" She threw her hands up in the air in a desperate manner. "Will you ever place _any_ of that blame on yourself? Will you ever be a man and own up to it?" She then threw the book in her hand to the floor and walked over to him.

He just stood there, motionless, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. He could not believe that she was talking to him like this. In his stunned state, he watched in horror as she reached out with her small, deft hand and grabbed his right arm. She pulled it forward and flipped it over to reveal the Dark Mark on his inner forearm, much like what he had done to her when he revealed the shameful scars on her wrist.

"How did you get _this_, Malfoy?" she asked, digging her nails into his flesh.

The same anger was in her eyes as it had been when he confronted her and made her confess. This anger was slightly different: it was accusing, damning.

"You have no fucking clue, Weasley!" he spat back, looking straight down into her cold eyes and smirking mirthlessly. "You stand here, passing judgement on me like you have been through what I have, placed in the exact same situations that I have." He laughed bitterly and shook his head. "You act so damn morally righteous, yet you have no idea what it means to make life or death choices."

He wrenched his arm out of her grasp and glowered at her.

"No, I don't," she replied evenly, to his surprise; however her eyes were still cold and narrowed. "But you want to talk about blame, about who did what for revenge, for power …" She looked down at his arm and then back up at him. "Who made you take the Dark Mark, Draco?"

He flinched at her use of his first name.

"Who made you try to kill Dumbledore?"

"Vold—"

"Who made you?" she interrupted in a low voice.

"I told you! Vold—"

"Who _made_ you?"

She was not going to give up. She didn't want to hear _his_ answer. She was just going to ask him the same question over and over again until he felt like crushing her windpipe with his bare hands.

"I DID!" he finally screamed back at her. "I did, alright? I wanted it, Weasley! I thought it was an honour."

She made a face and opened her mouth to speak, but he would be damned if he was going to allow her to interrupt the confession that she had so mercilessly wrung from him. She would swallow his words and choke on them!

"Yes, an honour!" he cried, seeing the look on her face. "I was raised to believe that the Dark Lord's way was the _only_ way. I thought I had no choice but to do what he asked. I thought – no, I _knew_ – that he'd kill my parents if I didn't do what he commanded, what my father couldn't do." He paused with a mingled look of mirth and disgust playing across his features. "But I still _wanted_ it!"

He hadn't noticed the wetness on his cheeks, the silent tears that had trickled down. It was funny. He didn't cry when they took his parents away to jail; he didn't cry when they locked him up here; he didn't even shed a tear when he cut into his own flesh, permanently marring his face. But he was crying now – crying because of a confession that he had held in his heart for almost two years.

"Bleeding berk I am, right?" He looked away from her, trying hard not to wipe the tears from his face. "So fucking stupid," he whispered, shaking his head as he hugged himself with his arms.

Ginevra frowned and opened her mouth to reply, but the words wouldn't come out. Couldn't. He turned his back to her and lowered his head.

"You're right, Weasley," he admitted softly, after a moment's pause, sounding utterly defeated. "As much as I hate to admit it, you are right." He laughed bitterly, almost pitifully. "This Mark is just a reminder of what I have done, of what a bloody fool I am."

"_Was_," she corrected softly.

He turned his head to look down at her in confusion, and she glanced down at her lap, failing to meet his eyes.

"So," she began, clearing her throat and looking up at him defiantly, "did you want to take that bath now?"

Taken aback by her sudden randomness, Draco snorted and slowly nodded his head, wondering which one of them was the most bipolar. "I would like that."

* * *

**Author's notes: **_Mea Culpa_ is Latin for _my guilt_ or _my culpability_. It's kind of like saying, 'I'm sorry for what I have done'.


	10. Baptism

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Ten: Baptism_

_August 11, 1998._

_I never knew how much I needed forgiveness until she gave it to me so willingly and selflessly. It was in my baptism that I found my faith and the strength to carry on._

Ginevra had to hold onto the banister as she ascended the stairs towards the bathroom. She was leading Malfoy, which was incredibly stupid of her. She should have been behind him with her wand trained, but for some odd reason she had let her guard down. Maybe it was because she didn't see him as a threat anymore, or maybe it was because of his confession. She wasn't sure, but she did know that she wasn't going to press the issue any time soon.

"Weasley, do you plan on throwing yourself at me?" Draco queried from behind, causing Ginevra to snap her head back in tandem.

"What?" she gasped, grabbing the railing tightly as she glanced down to see him wearing an amused expression on his soft yet angular face.

"You look like you're about to fall back onto me at any moment." He raised a perfectly pale eyebrow. "Do you have an upward mobility issue? Should I carry you up the stairs?" The ghost of a smirk haunted his lips.

"Get in front of me!" she ordered, stepping to the side and turning her back against the wall.

He obliged, raising his eyebrow even higher as the stairwell was rather tight and narrow. He turned to the side and began to slide past her, brushing his chest close to her face.

Ginevra held her breath as his soft Oxford dress-shirt chafed against her cheek. Her nose brushed into his chest, which held a soft scent of chocolate and spices. The boy definitely had filled out in the past few months. He seemed broader now, harder, and toned.

Draco glanced down briefly at her and smirked, making sure that every inch of his body touched every part of hers. Ginevra glared at him, knowing that he revelled in making her feel uncomfortable. It was as though a part of his old, confident self was shining through. It felt a little bit like home.

Letting out her breath as he passed her by, Ginevra turned to look at his back as he headed up the stairs. As she glanced up, she caught a rather nice view of his tight rear end.

Blast it all! She had to look. So, he had a round toned arse. So what?

When they finally made it up to the second floor, Ginevra felt as though her corneas had burned out of her eye sockets due to all the staring she had done. Draco had looked back, wondering which way to go, and she pointed to the right with her wand. He turned and entered the room immediately ahead.

When Draco entered, he was suddenly struck by how spacious the bathroom was, especially for such a small manor. A large off-white bathtub sat in the middle of the room, which was dimly lit with large and numerous candles that filled the large space with the sweet smell of lavender. He wondered why there were candles lit in there, especially in the middle of the day. It was almost unnerving.

Ginevra stepped inside, behind him, and turned to close the door and lock it. He spun around and saw her holding her wand loosely in her hand.

"Why, Miss Weasley, are you going to have your wicked way with me?" he asked in a somewhat flirty manner, shocking even himself.

Unperturbed, Ginevra placed her hand on her hip and scowled up at him. "Yes, Malfoy," she retorted, now pointing her wand at his lower body. "Now take off your trousers."

Blanching, Draco took a step backwards, and Ginevra cracked a wide grin.

"Just sit down, Malfoy," she said, laughing softly before pointing at a chair behind him. "I need to turn on the water first."

She walked over to the large white porcelain tub and turned on the ancient-looking silver faucet, watching the clear steaming water rush out and begin to fill the tub.

Draco stumbled back until his legs connected with the chair behind him and sat down. He scowled, hating the fact that the Weasley girl had just unnerved him, had almost made him feel shy, self-conscious.

"I locked the door in case you try to overpower me and escape," she explained casually, picking up a bottle from the rack that hung above the tub and squirting a white, soapy liquid into the water. Immediately, large bubbles began to form in the water.

"The candles?" he asked sceptically.

"I lit them earlier, to give you a more relaxing aroma while you have your bath."

"Relaxing?" he asked, furrowing his brow in confusion. Why was she trying to make him feel comfortable?

"Yeah, I figured you needed a good soak. It would be nice to let your wound breathe, as well." She walked over to where he sat and reached out to peel off his bandages.

He felt the warm soapy suds drip down from her hand onto his nose, and he sneezed. She giggled slightly at this and quietly apologised, wiping the excess soap from his cheek.

Kneeling down in front of him, she examined the scar below his right eye. She traced a wet finger along the raised white ridge and sighed. He glanced sideways at the mirror beside him and noticed that his cheek was no longer red and swollen but pale, with a slight tinge of pink to it. The scar started just below the eye and curved downward towards his jaw line, highlighting the intensity of his charcoal-coloured eyes. He absently wondered if she thought the scar made him appear dangerous or sexy.

Stupid thoughts.

"Why are you doing this for me?" he asked softly, looking down into her brown eyes, startling her.

Ginevra brought her hand down and looked away, swallowing hard. "I-I can never forget what you did to me and my family in the past." Her voice was soft but distant. "I hated the boy that you were."

Draco lowered his eyes and nodded his head. He knew that she didn't like him, that she hated him, but he had never thought that hearing those words would actually wound him.

"But I don't hate you now," she admitted softly, and he lifted his head. "I know that I only see in black and white, and I know that I am not perfect. Family-wise, though, I have led the perfect life. I never had to go through what you did." Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "While I don't agree with the choices you made or how you handled yourself in the past, I couldn't possibly begin to put myself in your shoes and say how I would have reacted – to say that I wouldn't have done the same."

Draco breathed out through his nose and sighed, shaking his head. "You would have made the right choices, Weasley," he said, returning her bitter smile.

Ginevra snorted and shook her head, making him lift an eyebrow in wonder. "Who knows what choices I would have made, Malfoy. I'm not exactly a level-headed individual."

She smiled genuinely this time and even winked at him, eliciting a soft laugh from his lips. He didn't know that she was even capable of self-deprecating humour. He certainly wasn't.

"I did this for you because I think it's a symbolic act of starting over, washing yourself from the sins and prejudices of your past," she explained, and he knitted his brow in concentration, and understanding. "I guess it's kind of like Muggle baptism – a way to be forgiven."

Draco bent his head and clasped his hands together almost in prayer, letting out a great sigh of relief, and joy. Until this moment, he never knew how much he wanted to be forgiven, how much he needed it. He looked down into her bright, honey-coloured eyes and smiled a genuine smile. She truly was something.

Hesitantly reaching out with his hand, Draco tucked an errant strand of red hair behind Ginevra's ear, causing her to blush and cast her eyes downward. Her face was quite lovely, he had to admit. Her distinguishing features – her red hair, her freckles, her small, oval face – while ordinary or plain to some, had suddenly become attractive to him. These features and qualities that he had never noticed before, he was now sure that he would forever seek in a woman, in a lover and mate. Her forgiving soul on top of the simple elegance of her innocent looks made her all the more beautiful in his eyes.

He was falling hard, and he knew it. The question remained: should he hide and quit these feelings altogether, or should he sate them?

"Oh, bollocks!" Ginevra swore, stirring him from his reverie.

She leapt up and sprinted over to the tub, which was now overflowing with water and bubbles. She quickly bent down and turned off the faucet, drenching the entire upper half of her torso in water and suds. Spitting the bubbles out of her mouth in disgust, she wiped them off her face and glanced over at Draco, who was snickering silently in his chair.

"You think this is funny, huh?" She grinned mischievously and grabbed a handful of bubbles and flicked them at the unaware blond.

Draco sprang up out of his seat and began to cough, wiping at his shirt and spitting out bubbles that she had flung in his face.

"Weasley!" he roared, rushing towards her, causing her to squeal and drop her wand.

Draco dunked his hands into the tub and began lifting fistfuls of bubbles and water and throwing them at the redhead's face. Ginevra let out a loud peal of laughter and began to sputter and cough as she choked on the bubbles. Wiping the soap from her eyes and hair, she began to laugh.

"How do you like that?" he asked, using both hands to start splashing more and more bubbles and water onto her.

"Peachy!" she retorted, giggling, as she dove her hands into the water and began spraying it unabashedly all over his face and chest.

Ginevra then turned her head to her side and began fanning the water out, screaming and giggling. She had not had this much fun in a long time, and she was having it with Malfoy!

"I think you need a bath, too," he announced, moving in closer to douse her with more water.

As he took a step forward, his right foot slipped on the soapy water below, sending him flying up into the air. Instinctively, he reached out for support, and all he found was the Weasley girl. She let out a panicked yelp as hands met with her waist, and she came crashing down onto the hard linoleum floor with him, landing directly on top.

Draco gripped her upper arms as he groaned into her cheek, having had his back and head bounce hard off the floor. He could feel her wet, warm body press into his. It was a comfortable weight. She tried to lift herself up, looking down into his grey eyes as she bit her lip. He swore he could see something there – something in her eyes – but she suddenly squirmed on top of him, only making the situation far more difficult for him. After a moment, she freed herself from his grip and stood up, only to slip and fall back down again.

He sat up and caught her before she hit the floor this time, bringing her directly onto his lap. They were both soaking wet, holding each other on the damp, flooded floor. She was shaking in his arms, and it wasn't due to cold.

"I guess that concludes the bath," he remarked facetiously, making to stand and help her to her feet.

She smiled feebly and nodded her head as she bent back down to retrieve her wand. "I, uh, will be waiting outside. I'll bring you in some towels once you are done."

Before she left, she muttered a spell to clean up the water and suds below his feet. Then she exited, leaving him to pry off his soaking wet clothes and take a much-needed bath.

**-x-**

Draco languidly soaked in the tub, resting his head against the back rim. Today was a good day, he thought to himself. Today, he felt more like himself.

He looked down into the tub and frowned as the bubbles began to fade away and disappear. He didn't know that Muggles couldn't have perpetual bubbles. Fairly soon, he would be able to see his toes, amongst other things, in the bottom of the tub.

Turned his head towards the door, he could hear a soft voice speaking at an even level. The Weasley girl's room must have been adjacent to the bathroom for he could hear her speaking rather clearly, if not slightly muffled by the thin walls. Apparently, she was having a conversation with someone. Perhaps by Floo? He strained his ear to listen to the conversation.

_"Harry, it's fine. I know you're busy. I didn't expect you to remember. I really wish Mum hadn't told you."_

_"Ginny, honestly, why couldn't you have told me it was your birthday in an owl?"_

_"Because I didn't think you'd care to know."_

_"Ginny?"_

_"Listen, I have to go check on Malfoy. I'll talk to you later. Bye."_

Draco turned his head back and smirked. So everything wasn't going swimmingly in the Potter-Weasley romance. The useless tosspot had forgot her birthday. That's probably why she had been crying earlier.

_Oh Merlin, is it today? _he asked himself and frowned. When she led him upstairs, he had seen letters and boxes in the parlour, and he hadn't thought to put two and two together.

A knock sounded on the door, and he jumped in the water. Before he could reply, however, the door was swung open.

"I have your towels—"

"Privacy, Weasley!" he shouted, trying to draw what bubbles were left in the water around his groin region.

"I-I … I didn't know that the bubbles dissipated so quickly," she stuttered, blushing several shades of pink.

"Yes, well, they do," he rejoined lamely, trying hard not to blush himself. "You can just set the towels down, Weasley. I'll be out in a moment."

"Yeah," she began softly, lifting her head to stare down into the water.

"Weasley!"

She jumped up and turned around. "I'm going!"

And with that, she stumbled out the door, leaving behind a blushing Malfoy who was intent on never having a Muggle bubble bath ever again.


	11. An Organic Connection

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Eleven: An Organic Connection_

_"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger … I am Heathcliff. He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being …" _– Catherine in _Wuthering Heights_.

Ginevra now came to see Draco daily. She had an inkling that he did not mind these visits; in fact, he seemed to look forward to them, and so did she. Since the several talks that they'd had a few weeks ago, an unspoken bond had formed between the two: one of mutual respect and understanding. She may not have fully forgiven him for his past transgressions (or at least have forgot), and he may not have overlooked her status and the power that she had over him, but they both agreed to live in the present and not in the past. They had essentially begun anew.

After the bath incident (also known as The Missing Bubbles Fiasco), Ginevra had decided to give Draco towels in advance and wait _outside _the bathroom in the hallway. She had allowed him a nice long soak every morning and occasionally once or twice in the evening when she found him to be in an especially petulant mood – skulking about his room after supper. These were usually days when she had received owls and visitors and he had not.

Ginevra had to admit that Draco seemed rather appreciative of her gestures, although he never managed to verbally express his thanks. She that knew he was grateful, however, by the way he would often stare at her when he thought she wasn't looking. She noticed. She noted every movement he made.

Not too long after The Missing Bubbles Fiasco, Ginevra had owled her brother George. She asked him to acquire some gym equipment for her, something to help distract Draco. George had readily agreed, coming through with his promise. He had Portkeyed onto the grounds the moment he could and greeted his baby sister with an affectionate hug and kiss on the cheek.

Ginevra invited him in for a spot of tea, and they talked for hours about Bill and Fleur expecting, Ron and Hermione's awkward dating, and Mum's general craziness in Ginevra's absence. It had been a long time since she had seen her brother, and she was glad to spend time with him. George always had a way of making her laugh and never prying into personal matters. Both he and Fred were true friends as well as brothers. She missed the duo's presence greatly.

George did, however, question her about Malfoy: whether he was being a right git with her or not. She shook her head and told him that the ex-Slytherin was a model inmate, and she did not have one complaint against him. George had laughed at her reply, saying that he should expect to see pigs flying any time soon as he found it impossible for a Malfoy to be a model anything, expect maybe a model tosspot.

When he finally got ready to leave, George leaned down to give Ginevra an extra tight hug and told her that he give Harry a talking to. He didn't think that his baby sister should be guarding Malfoy any longer. She had already been there for three months now, and it was time for her to come home and be with her family.

Ginevra smiled and hugged him back, telling him not to bother for she was fine. She thanked him for coming and bringing her the gym supplies – in addition to the letters and sweets from Mum and Dad. She escorted him to the door and watched him take to the grounds to Portkey away. Closing the door, she stretched and sighed and then made her way to Draco's cell door.

She knocked loudly.

"Enter," he replied briskly within.

She unlocked the door with her wand. "Hey," she said breathlessly, smiling as she rested a slender hand on the doorknob.

"Hey," he greeted back, nodding his head slightly, as he sat on his bed with her old journal in hand. "Did you have a pleasant visit with the giant?" He cocked an eyebrow in the air as he absently set down the book and quill.

"George?" She laughed. "Yeah, it was really good to see him."

"It's always nice to see family," he commented, wiping his palms on his trousers.

She frowned. "Yeah, about that …" She paused, stepping into the room and leaning her shoulder against the doorframe. "I owled Harry about getting an uncensored letter from your mum, but he said that the Ministry couldn't allow it."

He raised both eyebrows for a moment and then composed himself, dismissively waving his hand in front of his face. "I expected as much … or as less," he retorted. "Thanks for trying, though."

Ginevra nodded and crossed her arms over her chest. "I brought you some gym equipment," she added hopefully, as though trying to offer him something. She uncrossed her arms and waved him forward. "I can bring it in later though. How about you and I go for a walk?"

"Sure!" he replied rather quickly, jumping up from the bed.

Ginevra escorted Draco outside, zipping up her jumper to protect her from the sharp, howling wind. She pocketed her wand and smiled, noting the boyish grin that spread across his pale, handsome face as he took in a deep breath of fresh air and sighed contently. He then slowly began to perambulate around the yard, kicking at a few scattered maple leaves that littered the ground. Fall had come early, and it was only a matter of weeks before the entire yard would become blanketed with the multicoloured leaves.

"I could really go for a match of Quidditch right now," Draco said almost wistfully, sitting down beside Ginevra on the wooden bench.

"Yeah, I could go for a few rounds of chasing the old Snitch," she added airily, and then frowned. "We're not allowed to have brooms here, though." She shrugged sheepishly. "The Ministry seems to have this hair-brained idea that you'd take off if given one."

"Yeah?" He smirked. "They don't allow prisoners to ride magical brooms, you say?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm. "I thought I was on the honour system."

"They decided to take you off that due to The Missing Bubbles Fiasco," she explained with a remarkably straight face.

"Oh, right," he replied, shaking his head. "Well, that was well-worth being kicked off then."

Ginevra finally broke down and let out a small laugh. "Cheeky git!" She licked at her lips and held back the urge to punch him in the shoulder. "There's a football in the shed though. You want to have a kick?"

"Sounds good, but do you think you can keep up, Red?" There was a hint of seriousness in his tone that was coupled with playfulness and cheek.

"I grew up with six older _Weasley_ brothers, _Blondie_. I think I can handle _one_ Malfoy."

Draco jumped up and stood in front of her, his eyebrow raised suggestively as the patented Malfoy smirk spread across his handsome features. "Many women have tried and failed miserably." He winked.

Ginevra rolled her eyes and jumped up, pushing past him as she ran over to the shed. She would fetch that football and thoroughly humiliate one Mr Full Of Himself Malfoy.

**-x-**

Draco sat on the bed in his cell and opened the cover to Ginevra's journal, slipping a small note inside. Closing the book, he put it down next to his pillow and glanced out the window, frowning. He had wanted to find some way to wish the Weasley girl a happy birthday. It had been a month now, and he had not managed to think of a way to celebrate it. He had considered abandoning the notion altogether. With no wand and no money, he could do very little. He wasn't exactly gifted in the Muggle department. He could dance and play the piano, but there were no music in the house and no instruments. He couldn't draw or write – or at least not write anything the Weasley girl would want to read

Suddenly, as if on cue, Ginevra knocked on the door, disturbing Draco from his musings. He grabbed a book, attempting to look busy, and admitted her entrance. She unlocked the cell door with her wand and stepped inside, dragging a large sack behind her.

"Hey, I brought you some more books," she announced cheerily, dropping the sack to the floor. "Don't worry, they're not romance novels or textbooks." She gave him a reassuring smile. "George and Percy just dropped these off this morning."

He looked up from his book and squinted his eyes, trying to focus. He figured that he would need glasses soon at the rate he was reading, and now she was bringing him even more literature to peruse. Over the past few weeks, he had even begun having literary discussions with her, talking about books whenever she came to bring him something to eat or take him upstairs for his bath.

Draco had no idea how well-versed the girl was. Of course, he had never read many Muggle books in his youth. He used to sneak a few when he was younger, unbeknownst to his mother and father. He grew out of that rebellious phase, however, at Hogwarts. Had he been caught reading Muggle books there – well, that would have made him quite the hypocrite and figure of mockery in his House.

"Still reading that book, are you?" she asked, smirking, as she briefly glanced over at her copy of _Wuthering Heights_ that he clutched in his hand.

He had refused to read the other 'romance' novels that she had given him, especially _Pride and Prejudice_. Besides, her journal and the copy of _Wuthering Heights_ were the only two books he didn't thoroughly destroy in the tantrum he threw a month ago. While some of the other books were readable, most were just kindling for the fire.

"Heathcliff intrigues me," he answered simply. "He has many faces, each with many facets to them." He closed to book and looked up at her.

"I still don't see why you like him so much," she remarked, rolling her eyes as she began to stock the bookcase. "He was a horribly evil and unforgiving brute. He was more obsessed with getting revenge than he was in his love for Catherine."

"Says who?" Draco replied, putting the book down on the bedside cabinet and sitting up on the bed.

"Nelly, the main narrator for one!" she retorted.

"So you believe that a _servant_ gave justice to his tale?" He snorted, shaking his head in an incredulous manner. "Hardly. That old nag had him demonised."

Ginevra's mouth hung ajar. "So, because she is a servant, she is unreliable?"

"Obviously," he answered without hesitation. "I mean, c'mon now, Weasley. Would you write favourably about your own boss, who was stations above you yet born a gypsy bastard?"

She winced at his bluntness and decided to dismiss his question entirely. "What of Catherine and Heathcliff's love then – was that demonised too? Was it imagined by Nelly?"

"No," he answered absently, bringing a finger to his bottom lip. "I believe their love was real when they were young; however, it was never meant to be. They came from two different worlds, two different prejudices."

"True, but there was potential."

Draco shook his head. "No, Catherine was far too selfish and superficial."

"And Heathcliff was unforgiving," she added.

They both shrugged their shoulders in unison.

"They refused to change who they were or accept differences in each other and those around them," he remarked quietly, sighing as he ran his fingers through his hair. "They were both living off the memories of their childhood. They had nothing to keep their love burning …" He paused and shook his head. "Yet, it did – on memory alone."

Ginevra put down the book and went over to the bed and sat down at the end. "Perhaps with soul mates, love never dies out," she offered thoughtfully, and he leaned in closer. "It is the memory of past lives that sticks with us and haunts us. We can't help but always _feel_ that love."

Draco sat back and snorted, causing her to scowl at his impudence. "Weasley, love is something that needs to be worked on, tended to and nurtured, or else it wilt and decay and transform into something horrid and putrid."

"But that's what they did!" she exclaimed, ignoring the frightening quality of truth to his words. "They nurtured their love and it kept growing, even though they could never sate their unbridled emotions." At once, she began to grow animated and motioned with her hands. "Family and society had deemed their love wrong, but they could _not_ halt the ebb and flow of their love; like the sea, like the moors – it was a wild, living thing!"

Draco laughed and genuinely smiled at her exuberance.

"What?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest, her lips forming into a pout.

"Are you are suggesting some kind of organic connection – the rejection of society in favour of the individual?" he asked, raising an eyebrow whimsically in the air. "My, how _romantic_, Weasley."

"Shut up, Malfoy!" She reached over and playfully slapped his shoulder. "You know, you _are_a lot like Heathcliff."

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently but remained smiling, still feeling her hand on his shoulder as though her touch had burned through him.

"Aren't you going to call me Catherine?" she asked jokingly.

He shook his head. "No, I think Ginevra suits you best." He looked up at her from the bed, and she blushed, looking away. "You're not selfish enough to be Catherine. Perhaps more like Cathy." He winked at her and then looked serious for a moment. "I'd say we're more like Hareton and Cathy."

"Well, that's a happy ending!"

She let out an awkward laugh, and they both sat on his bed, looking down at their hands, unable to finish their literary conversation.

"Uh, Weasley," Draco began, finally breaching the silence, "I never got to properly wish you a happy birthday a month ago."

Ginevra jerked her head up, glancing over at the blond with her mouth open in shock. "How did you—"

"I saw the presents," he explained, leaving out the fact that he had eavesdropped on her conversation with Potter.

Old habits died hard.

"I didn't have anything to give you as a present," he explained. "I thought I'd be able to come up with something to make you or do for you, but …" He ran his fingers through his shoulder-length hair and breathed heavily, looking both awkward and uncomfortable. "Well, there's not much I can give you, Weasley, so I thought I'd give you an 'I Owe You'."

Ginevra furrowed her brow in confusion as he reached down and picked up a small leather journal to hand it to her. It was her diary. She opened it, and a small piece of paper slipped out.

_Weasley,_

_I owe you a birthday present and/or a favour. Feel free to call in that favour or claim a gift at any time._

_Yours truly,_

_Draco Malfoy_

"I figure if I get out of here, you can cash in on this before they send me to Azkaban," he offered, swallowing hard, looking downright humble. "I would've have made an official seal or bond, but … yeah, no wand." He held up his empty hands and lowered them with a sigh. "You'll just have to take my word."

"Malfoy, I don't know what to say," she began, looking down at the paper.

"I also wanted to give you back your journal," he added, reaching behind to rub the back of his neck. "It is _yours_, after all."

"But your entries—" she began, and he cut her off.

"They're yours now. Keep them in there," he said, hastily adding, "if you want to, that is." He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and offered her a small smile. "I was given a glimpse into your mind, so it's only fair that you have a piece of mine."

Ginevra raised an eyebrow and stared sidelong at him. "Should I expect many entries featuring the phrase 'Die, She-Weasel, die'?"

He laughed and shook his head. "No, nothing that entertaining."

She glanced down at the journal. "This is a remarkably sweet gesture, Malfoy. Nothing I would have ever expected." She looked up and smiled radiantly at him. "Thanks."

"_Draco_," he corrected her, and she tilted her head in confusion. "Call me Draco, Weasley." He smiled almost nervously at her, looking dreadfully uncomfortable. "That is, if you'd like to."

She let out a short soft laugh and nodded. "Oddly enough, I actually do." She blushed slightly. "And it's not _Weasley_," she corrected, as if chastising. "Call me …" She paused, and her smile widened. "Call me Ginevra."

He nodded, and his smile grew warm. "Ginevra it is then," he said, holding out his hand to her, and she looked down at it, momentarily perplexed. "Nice to meet you, Ginevra."

She took his cold hand in her warm one and firmly shook it. "Nice to meet you, Draco."

Who says starting over is impossible? All it took was a handshake to plant the seeds of reconciliation and mark the beginnings of a great potential; in short, they were creating something organic.

* * *

**Author's notes:** I know some notions may be lost on you if never read _Wuthering Heights_. Needless to say (brief summary), it is a story of two people from different social classes who love each other with an intense passion (somewhat asexual). They are soul mates who are obsessed with one another; however, Heathcliff is more obsessed with revenge on those who slighted him while Catherine tends to be more obsessed with herself and her station. Remind you of anyone?

It makes you wonder why Ginevra calls Draco Heathcliff. They have interchangeable personalities; both Draco and Ginevra have elements of both Heathcliff and Catherine in them. However, Draco and Ginevra tend to mirror the second generation, Cathy and Hareton: Ginevra being more like Catherine's daughter, Cathy, and Draco being more like Hareton, a boy raised by Heathcliff. Unlike Catherine and Heathcliff, who both had a sad ending of being unable to be with one another, Cathy and Hareton were able to overcome their differences and fall in love (much like meeting anew and being given a clean slate).

I realise that this was a fairly poor discussion, but then it served its purpose: when one is willing to change and grow, love becomes potential; it becomes organic.


	12. Luck Be A Lady

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Twelve: Luck Be A Lady_

_"Luck be a lady, tonight."_ – Frank Sinatra and Julie London's _Luck Be A Lady_ from **Guys and Dolls**.

The sun had just begun to rise, and Ginevra Weasley was jerked awake from her sleeping position on the sofa in the parlour to the sound of soft clicking. She brought her head up to see who, or what, was disturbing her slumber when her confusion quickly turned to giddy joy at the sight of a familiar old owl perched on the windowsill near the front door. She jumped up and ran over to the window to open the latch, allowing Errol to step inside.

Ginevra greeted the scrawny and ancient family owl with an affectionate stroke on the top of its head and retrieved the note attached to its ankle. She unrolled the parchment and grinned. She had sent word to her father a few days ago, asking him if he could acquire an old Muggle device for her. His letter said that he would obtain one for her and deliver it to her by Portkey as soon as possible. Giggling to herself as she held the letter close to her chest, Ginevra had a feeling that Malfoy – Draco – would like the little surprise that she had in store for him.

Grabbing her wand off the table near the sofa, she strolled over to Draco's cell and knocked lightly on the door.

"Enter," he murmured from the other side, and she unlocked the door.

The tall and now broad blond sat at the end of his already-made bed with folded towels on his lap. His hair was long now – very long – and it reached down well-past his shoulders. It was unnaturally white and straight, matching the alabaster colour of his skin, which baffled her since they had gone outside nearly every day for the past two months. Ginevra had to admit that Draco had gained a somewhat darker hue from these daily excursions; however, he was a Malfoy and Malfoys were just naturally pale.

Remarkably, his pewter-coloured irises were sharp and penetrating, largely due to the scar below his right eye. It had now healed, showing a smooth white ridge that curved down toward his jaw line. He looked older somehow, but in a dignified and refined sort of way. He was the image of a dashing rake that one would find in a romance novel, and Ginevra internally cursed herself for making such a comparison.

"Ready for your bath, I see," she commented dryly, still grinning.

"Yeah," he said with a nod and stood up, bringing a hand to his chin. "I was wondering if you have a razor or a pair of scissors." He slid both of his hands into his trouser pockets, holding the towels in the crook of his arm.

"For cutting your hair?" she asked warily.

For one thing, she really did not want him to shorten his hair. He looked quite roguish with it long. It really suited him, really. In fact, it made him look like his father, and while Lucius Malfoy was a right evil bastard, more than his son could ever be, Ginevra could admit that Lucius was rather handsome. Like father, like son. However, the crux of the matter and what really concerned Ginevra was what Draco would do with a razor. It was true that over the past three months he had seemed to be much more content with himself than he had been before, but she still didn't want to chance him cutting himself again.

"For shaving," he replied quickly, glancing away so she couldn't see the guilty expression hanging on his face.

Ginevra pursed her lips together and narrowed her eyes on the seemingly clean-shaven blond. "But you've hardly a hair on your face!" she exclaimed, folding her arms across her chest in suspicion, as she found his explanation to be rather dubious.

"That's because I have been shaving," he retorted.

She cocked an eyebrow in the air. "How?"

Draco sighed deeply and swallowed hard before bringing his right hand out of his pocket to grasp onto his towels. "I've been using the glass from the mirror," he admitted after a brief pause, looking up at her through his long, blond lashes.

The same mirror that he had used to cut into his face, he was now using as a grooming device.

"It takes a long time to do a proper job with it," he explained, taking in a breath of air, "and it also tends to catch." He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully and frowned. "I figure I could trim more hair and cut less skin with a proper razor and a pair of scissors."

He offered her a devilish smirk, but it didn't work on her. Instead, Ginevra tilted her head to the side and frowned. She could trust this man not to attack or harm her, but she wasn't quite ready to trust him not to hurt himself.

"I have a kit upstairs," she said slowly, and his eyes momentarily brightened, "but there's a condition."

He furrowed his brow in suspicion. "What?" he asked, wondering what stipulation she had to offer him.

"_I_ do the trimming."

**-x-**

Draco closed the bathroom door shut and brought the towels up to his chest. Ginevra Weasley was going to … shave him. The image was, at once, both erotic and disturbing. As much as he had started to get along with the redhead (and had even begun to find her attractive), he wasn't quite sure if her trusted her with a sharp or even a dull – no, especially a dull – blade to his neck.

He set down his towels on the sink counter and walked over to the tub to draw himself a bath. Sans bubbles (as he had refused to have the damnable things after The Missing Bubbles Fiasco), he stepped inside the tub with steamy water, which was slightly too hot for his liking (but he would endure), and sat down. After a minute, he let out a protracted sigh and finally sank all the way down, leaning his head against the rim of the tub. It was funny how the simple things in life could become so satisfying and relaxing. He must have drifted off for a moment for he could hear the Weasley girl's voice on the other side of the door.

"Malfoy, you okay?"

Still sleepy, he nodded his head. "Mhm." His eyes were closed in bliss. "It's Draco," he added, murmuring.

"I'm coming in," she announced, and his eyes shot wide open.

"Weasley!" he cried, as the petite redhead strode into the room with a small kit in her hand.

"Ginevra, remember?" she corrected him with a small smirk on her lips, which quickly turned into an O expression when she spotted him naked in the tub. Her eyes had widened considerably, resembling the expression of a startled doe.

"Gin-e-vra," he replied, enunciating each syllable through gritted teeth as he stared up at her with narrowed grey eyes. "What do I owe the pleasure of having to receive you whilst soaking naked in the tub?"

He hadn't bothered to cover himself or draw his knees up. He looked somewhat annoyed and nonchalant (okay, smug).

"I … uh." She fumbled for the right words as she brought a hand up to her shield eyes. "You've been in here forever. I thought you were done," she explained, peeking out through her fingertips – an act which elicited a smirk from the wet blond.

"So, you thought you'd come in and offer to towel me off?" he asked, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

"No." She blushed. "I had read somewhere that steam opens up the pores and makes for a cleaner shave," she offered as an explanation, and then lowered her hand and looked away.

"Where did you read that?" he asked, sounding none-too-convinced as he stood up inside the tub.

Ginevra quickly turned her body in the opposite direction to face the counter, which also happened to have a large mirror above it (luckily it was fogged up).

"Witch Weekly, I think," she answered hurriedly, in a rather high-pitched voice.

"Uh huh," he murmured behind her, before clearing his throat. "Could you pass me a towel, Ginevra?"

He had asked her painstakingly sweet, and she bent down and reached forward, picking up the top towel from the chair and quickly threw her hand back, trying to hand him the towel without her having to turn around.

"Thanks for handing me the _hand _towel," he said wryly. "If this is what you think is an estimation of the size of my torso, I would suggest you turn around and have a better look." He smirk widened.

Damn Malfoy.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, blushing several shades of pink as she reached forward again and grabbed the bottom towel, which was much larger.

She thrust her arm back again, and his wet hand made contact with her dry one, sliding the towel out of her grasp.

"Why do you have a hand towel anyway?" she asked lamely, wiping her hand along the leg of her trousers.

"It was for after shaving," he replied in a muffled voice, drying his face with the large towel and then the rest of his body.

As she clutched the grooming kit tightly in her hand, Draco wondered why she didn't use a wand for this. But then he figured that she probably didn't know any proper spells for shaving, and he doubted that she wanted to be given shaving magic lessons.

"So, are we ready?" he asked in a low, almost sultry voice behind her, and, on instinct, she turned around.

Ginevra took a step back and almost tripped over her own two feet. While Draco had always been known as a rather attractive bloke in school, he was positively stunning now. The large towel was draped around his torso, which was narrow and trim. His broad and no longer flat chest was still glistening with beads of water that rolled down toward his defined abdomen that seemed to ripple as he breathed. A long, white scar went across his right chest to his right biceps – the scar that Harry Potter had given him in his sixth year. It seemed to fit perfectly with the scar on his face, which subtly highlighted the steel depths of his now merrily dancing eyes, which also drew attention to the cheeky grin on his soft lips.

Draco pushed his long, wet hair out of his face and slicked it back down between his shoulder blades. "Ginevra?" he asked, and, after a moment of no response and her just her standing there staring at his body with an open mouth, he cleared his throat. "Weasley?"

"Yes!" She snapped her head up. "Shaving. Yes. Uh, come take a seat over here," she said, pointing hastily to the chair.

He smirked and let out a soft chortle as he walked over and sat down elegantly in the chair. "Now we're of equal height," he commented with a wink.

She resisted the urge to swat him on his wet, naked chest. "Funny, Malfoy."

She set the shaving kit on the counter and took out a wide brush and some cream.

"It's Draco, remember?" He watched her fidget with some amusement. "You might as well just use your hands instead of that brush. It will get the job done quicker."

Ginevra raised an eyebrow but complied, setting down the soft brush. She dipped her fingers into the small container and began to rub the cream in circular motions onto his smooth face. He smiled and leaned his head back in comfort. She then walked over to the sink and filled a small basin with warm water and set it down beside him on the counter. She reached over and pulled out a long straight razor, and that was when Draco's smile faltered.

Ginevra grinned. "Trust me, Draco," she almost cooed reassuringly, dipping the blade in the hot water and bringing it up to his neck.

He took in a deep breath and nodded his head, tilting it back for her to do what she must. She held Draco's chin with her thumb and middle finger as she slowly ran the blade upward against the grain. Dipping the blade back into the water to wash it, she wiped the residue on the side of the basin and brought the razor back down to his neck. She began again from the right side of his face, working her way to his left. When she reached the front of his throat and chin, she gently tilted his head back and straddled his lap so that she could get in closer.

As she put the blade close to his Adam's apple, she asked softly, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled and brought the razor down, gently sliding it up his throat and over his chin until it reached his bottom lip. When she finally finished the rest of his face, giggling at her accomplishment as she threw the blade into the basin, he grabbed her waist and sat her down on his lap. She let out a gasp as he breathed somewhat heavily and bent forward, resting his forehead against hers. She felt something stir beneath her, and she wriggled around on his lap.

"Don't!" he exclaimed sharply, drawing his head back. "Don't squirm like that, Weasley." He smiled lazily at her through half-lidded eyes.

At first, she didn't comprehend the look he was giving her or the large bump she felt sticking into her rear. "Wha—"

"I apologise. I didn't know that this would make me …" He paused and almost blushed. "You forgot underneath my nose," he added randomly, trying to change the subject to divert the tension and his embarrassment.

"Oh!" she exclaimed rather squeakily.

She leaned forward to grab the razor, brushing her chest against his, and then sat back down on his lap, causing him to moan softly into her neck.

"Sorry," he apologised once more, drawing his face back away from hers.

She dabbed a bit of cream below his nose and slid the razor upwards; swallowing hard and trying desperately not to look into his stormy eyes or gaze too longingly at his full, pink lips. Ginevra giggled slightly when she finished, lightly dabbing away the cream and excess hair from his face with the hand towel and then slowly wiped it across his lips, staring down at them.

"All done?" he asked, as she brought the towel back. He placed his hands on her hips, causing her to jump. "Ung, I'll take that as a yes." He groaned, still holding onto her, afraid that if he let go his towel would fall off with her, and she would see how incredibly aroused he was.

"Uh huh," she replied sheepishly, reaching forward to tuck an errant strand of fine blond hair behind his ear. "So, do we cut the floppy fringe next?"

Draco shook his head and grinned, holding the lithe woman on his lap, enjoying the moment. "Maybe next time, Red," he said, standing up and lifting her up with him.

The towel inevitably dropped to the floor, causing Ginevra to hold her breath and look up into his deep, grey eyes. His head lowered, and she turned her face upward and gently pushed off him, turning around.

"I will wait for you outside," she said quietly, and quickly ran out the door.

**-x-**

November had fast approached the Hollow. It was a chilly month, much colder than usual, and ever since the towel incident (they had so many incidents now), Ginevra had allowed Draco to shave his own face and trim his own hair. He had still kept his hair long, though, much to her personal pleasure.

In other news, Ginevra's father had finally come to visit her, to give her mother and brothers' warm words of love and the Muggle items that she had requested. After he left, she set up the specified and highly anticipated device in the parlour, smiling giddily to herself as she set the needle on the vinyl record. She turned up the volume on the record player and listened to it crackle and pop, the static ringing through all the way into Draco's cell. The mellifluous melodies of Frank Sinatra and Julie London sang _Luck Be A Lady_, filling her heart with warmth and joy. She pointed her wand at Draco's door and opened it wide.

Draco was standing in front of the door with a mixed look of curiosity and amusement plastered across his face. Ginevra laughed at him as she turned up the volume even louder, dancing around the parlour. She motioned with her hands for him to come into the room and join her, and he hesitantly took a step forward and left the confines of his cell.

"How did you get this?" he yelled over the music, slowly sauntering toward her with his hands in his pockets.

"My dad!" she yelled back, skipping around the room.

She had no idea who these two Muggles were – and perhaps it was her months of internment in this house – but she absolutely adored their voices. When the song ended, she ran back over to the record player and played it again, familiarising herself with the lyrics.

Draco just watched her run back and forth to the Muggle device, restarting it so that she could try to memorise the song. She danced about the room, not caring how awful her rhythm was or how silly she looked just constantly twirling. She was happy and carefree.

"Hey, it's like he's you, and she's me!" she yelled, laughing.

He snorted. "You think _you_ can be a lady?" He cocked his head to the side and made his way to where she was dancing.

She stuck her tongue out at him and sung the lyrics awkwardly, and loudly. "Stick with me baby, I'm the gal that you came in with!"

He reached her quickly and smoothly took her hand, twirling her around the room, dipping her at all the right times, holding her in all the right places.

"Why don't we keep this party polite?" he asked, grinning.

"Uh huh," she replied, giggling.

"Never get out of my sight!" he said possessively, drawing her in close.

"No way!"

They both broke out in laughter and collapsed on the sofa. He sat up and leaned toward her, which caused to sink back as he fell forward and hovered above her, bracing his strong arms with his hands on either side of her head.

"Thank you, Ginevra," he said after a moment, looking down into her soft caramel eyes as his long, blond hair fell onto her face.

"You're welcome," she breathed, smiling nervously up at him.

His face was so precariously close to hers that she began to feel time like a heartbeat. She wanted to reach up and touch his beautifully sculpted face, trace her fingers along his scar, and place the tips of her fingers on his lips, letting them linger there to be kissed. But she couldn't; she shouldn't.

"Let's see what else Dad gave me," she said abruptly, clearing her throat as she manoeuvred her way from underneath him and crawled off the sofa to jump up and jog over to the box of records.

She just had to get away; the nearness of him was suffocating her. She didn't know what she was thinking, what she was doing – what she almost did. She had been closer to Draco in these past six months than she had ever been with Harry. What _was _she thinking? Why was she beginning to feel so strongly about him, like he was someone normal, like he was someone she could trust?

Draco watched her go and frowned. He had been close to kissing her. Why? Over the past few months he had begun to become intimate with the Weasley girl on a level he never thought possible. Her diary, her opening up to him, their discussions, his confession, the shave, the dance … Maybe it was his isolation, but he was beginning to have feelings for his captor. Merlin, he hated to admit to the old adage, but she made him want to be a better man. Unfortunately, she was someone else's, and he had no one. He was just a lonely and bitter Heathcliff.


	13. One Last Dance

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Thirteen: One Last Dance_

_"I said to myself, 'this affair never will go so well'. But why should I try to resist when, baby, I know so well. I've got you under my skin."_ – Frank Sinatra's version of Cole Porter's _I've Got You Under My Skin_.

"Weasley!"

She could hear him bellow her name, and she could imagine him closing his eyes and tilting his head back, resting it against the rim of the tub. She paid his whinging no mind, though; she just sat on her chair outside the bathroom door and smiled, looking down at the book in her hand.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife …"

"Weasley, I swear on everything that is holy and sacred that if you dare read one more word of that rubbish to me, I will come out there and throttle your skinny little neck!"

_Idle threats_, she thought to herself as she leafed through the pages toward the back of the book and continued to read aloud.

"For what do we live but to make sport for our neighbours and laugh at them in turn?"

"La la la la la!" he yelled.

She tried desperately to keep it together and not break down and laugh as she imagined the blond clamping his hands over his ears like a three-year-old pitching a fit.

"I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though, not in principle …"

"Weasley—Ginevra, please?" he begged. "This is absolute torture. I'm sorry, okay. I'm sooooooorry!"

"Sorry for what, Draco?" she asked pointedly, trying to sound stern when, in fact, she was having a merry old time.

"Fortryingtopushyouintoapuddle," he mumbled hurriedly, sounding rather petulant.

"For _what_?" she asked again, a wry grin plastered on her pale, freckled face.

"I'm sorry I tried to push you into a puddle of mud!" he shouted, sounding even more sullen than before.

Ginevra had taken Draco outside earlier for a supervised walk on the grounds. What had started out as an innocent game of football had quickly escalated into a mud-slinging match when Ginevra had, inadvertently mind you, tripped Draco, causing him to dive face-first into the wet grass. The blond had chosen to retaliate by trying to push her into a mud puddle – the operative word being 'try'.

When the fool of a boy had attempted such a feat, she had caught wind of it straight away. Draco didn't understand that Ginevra Weasley had grown up in a household of boys – boys who liked to prank, particularly the twins. She could smell mischief and deception a kilometre away, especially when such devilry was directed at her. She had put a quick end to his plans and flipped him over her back, rocketing the blond into the murky, shallow waters below.

And now here they both were: she reading _Pride and Prejudice _to him while he sat in a tub of his own filth, forced to listen to her recite Jane Austen's prose. Revenge was as amusing as it was sweet.

Ginevra closed the book and smiled smugly to herself. She would have to utilise Jane Austen more often if she wanted to keep a short leash on Draco Malfoy. She should have thought of this much sooner; it might have made their situation in the months preceding August to have run a lot smoother.

Outside, she could hear him whisper, 'Oh, thank Merlin', within, like a fevered prayer. She laughed softly, shaking her head. Suddenly, a light tapping sounded on a window nearby, and she frowned, standing up. Placing the book down on her chair, Ginevra walked into her room with wand in hand. The tapping noise started up again, and she wondered if it was branch drumming on the glass, propelled by the strong winds outside. When she looked out the window, though, she did not see a tree branch but a snowy-white owl tapping its beak against the pane glass.

Startled, she drew her head back and stared at the owl, which bore a striking resemblance to Hedwig. She went over to the window and opened it, allowing the large, regal-looking bird to step inside. Immediately, it obediently offered its leg to her, and she glanced down at it curiously, seeing a rolled up piece of parchment attached to it.

She took the paper and patted the owl's head softly. She had no treats upstairs, as Errol often visited the window on the first floor near the front door. She told the bird to wait and walked back out to her chair where she had a plate of crackers on the floor. She picked up the plate and went back to the owl, offering him the meagre salty treat. He (or she) accepted it with good grace and began to delicately nibble on the cracker.

Taking a seat at the small desk near the window, she began to unfurl the parchment. Her eyes widened slightly, and her lips pursed into a small frown, as she noted the sloppy yet legible handwriting (thereby striking Ron from the list of authors as his cursive script had never been legible). It was a letter from Harry.

_Ginny,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_I am so sorry that it has taken me so long to write back to you. I have been dreadfully busy as you know, but that is no excuse. I should have taken the time to write back, no matter how short or uninteresting a letter I might have written. My behaviour has been inexcusable, and for that I am truly sorry. You know that I would never intentionally hurt you or ignore you._

_I regret that you have been out there alone with Malfoy for so long. I want you to know that I have put a rush on the matter and will be returning you home shortly. Everyone misses you, especially me. I cannot wait to see you again and hold you in my arms._

_I hope to see you very soon._

_All my love,_

_Harry_

Ginevra absently grabbed a cracker and bit down, almost choking. Her throat had gone dry. She spit out the cracker and began to cough wildly, causing Harry's owl to glance at her warily and flap its wings, taking off out the window and into the night. She laughed at its skittishness, but this only aggravated her cough. She desperately needed a drink of water.

"Weasley—Ginevra, are you okay?"

She could hear Draco enquiring into her health from inside the bathroom. He sounded genuinely concerned. She quickly grabbed an empty glass on her bedside cabinet and muttered a replenishing water spell and gulped it down as quickly as she could magically produce it.

"Y-Yeah," she yelled back, still coughing. "I'm fine."

Setting down the glass, she cleared her throat and then shoved the letter inside the drawer of her bedside cabinet. She shook her head, trying to shake off the mixed feelings that she felt. For some odd reason, she almost felt guilty – guilty for not missing Harry and for not caring about the wonderful words of love he wrote. Did this make her a bad person, a bad girlfriend? She loved Harry, but she wondered if that was enough.

"I'm turning into a prune here, Red. You wanna let me out?" Draco asked impatiently.

Ginevra laughed, forgetting her worries almost entirely. "Yeah, yeah, just hold onto your towel, Blondie!"

**-x-**

She had finally let him out of the bathroom (changed, of course) and took him downstairs to his cell. He went to his bed and sat down, expecting her to close the door, but she lingered there, waiting.

"Is there something you'd like?" he asked, wondering if she wanted to talk.

He didn't dare breach that subject and directly ask her that. He may have tolerated the girl (okay, maybe he liked her), but he was still a man and not an idiot. Asking a girl if she wanted to talk was like opening up the floodgates to Hell. He wasn't going to open Pandora's Box and have his arse summarily kicked for no good reason.

"Actually, there is," she replied confidently.

He was somewhat taken aback by her steady and self-assured reply. He turned his right palm outward in an offering gesture, suggesting for her to continue. She grinned at this, and he couldn't help but grin back.

"Remember that I.O.U you gave me for my birthday?" she asked, leaning against the doorframe.

He nodded, somewhat nonplussed that she would mention it after all this time. She smiled at his expression and almost appeared to be blushing. He furrowed his brow, wondering what had caused this sudden change in mood and what favour, exactly, she was going to call in.

"I was wondering if you could teach me how to dance," she asked, less confident this time, drawing her arms in front of her torso as she clasped her hands together.

_This is the favour?_he asked himself and smiled. "Of course," he replied with a nod, appraising her form in the doorway.

She certainly had the legs for dancing, he could see, noting the long, layered skirt she wore, which reached just below her knees. The top half of the dress was slightly shorter, dark brown in colour, while the bottom half was white and cut longer, flaring out beneath the top half of the skirt. She wore a thick, knitted turtleneck jumper, white in colour. It hung low to the top part of her hips, hugging every curve of the upper half of her body, from the swell of her breasts to the cut of her slender waist.

He turned his head sharply and tried hard not to blush or look her in the eye, wondering if she had noticed that he had just checked her out.

"When would you like to begin?" he asked, thinking she would want to start tomorrow.

"Now, if you'd like?" she asked somewhat nervously, before turning to open the door wide.

He nodded and stood to his feet, following her into the sitting room. "What kind of dance would you like to learn?"

She walked over to the record player and rifled through her sparse collection to select a record, slipping it on the cover and setting the needle on the vinyl.

"Any kind, really," she replied, as the music began to play a relaxing tempo. "A waltz, perhaps?"

He swallowed hard, trying not to show his nervousness as he gently took her left hand and placed it on his hip while he slid her right hand in his. Her palm felt clammy, and he wondered if she was nervous too. She offered him a strained smile and failed to meet his eyes.

The music was soft and enchanting. A man was singing about a woman who had got under his skin, and try as he might to not let her affect him, he could not prevent the inevitable.

_Why does she pick these songs? _he asked himself with a wry grin, shaking his head as she began to lead him in the dance, getting lost in the rhythm and in the feel of his arms.

"Weasley." She turned her head to give him a look – a look that said, 'Stop calling me Weasley'. "Ginevra," he said, correcting himself, and her mouth twisted into a satisfied grin. "You need to let _me _lead."

Her mouth formed into the shape of an O, and she blushed profusely, looking down at her feet before mumbling an apology.

He led her around the room, instructing her on how to count in step, and effortlessly demonstrated how to move her feet in synch with his. After a while, she finally got the timing, although she would occasionally step on his foot and laugh.

"Maybe we should name this song 'I've Got You Under My Foot'," she said, blushing embarrassed at the painful expression that was obvious on his face.

He nodded his head and winced as she stepped on his foot yet again, as if to demonstrate her point. "For a petite woman, you certainly manage to effectively crush my foot with little effort," he commented with a hiss.

She dropped her hand from his to playfully swat at him, but Draco was too quick and managed to catch her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. He let them linger on her satin smooth skin for a moment, unaware of what he had done or what he was about to do. He saw her swallow hard and bat her eyelashes nervously, and he brought her now trembling hand down to his chest. He wanted her to feel his heart beat, to feel the vibrations of it thudding loudly in his chest. He drew her in close and felt her lips reach his neck, and he shuddered, feeling goosebumps travel up his arms and chest.

The music had stopped, and the record was skipping softly, almost soundlessly on the tray. He pulled back slightly and looked down at her. She opened her eyes and gazed up into his. She looked so lovely, so inviting.

Draco bent down slowly and Ginevra closed her eyes, hesitantly and expectantly, lifting her chin so that her mouth was made accessible. He lowered his soft lips down onto hers and felt how warm and smooth they were, aching for his touch. As his lips agonisingly brushed against hers, he brought his free hand to her temple, sliding his fingers wantonly down her cheek, parting his mouth to take her full, pink lips into his.

"Ginny?"

His head snapped back, and he watched her open her eyes in shock. She stood back, stunned, and looked around the room in wonder, trying to identify the disembodied voice that echoed softly.

"Who?" she asked.

Draco stiffened, dropping her hand as he stepped back. "I think someone is fire-calling you," he answered without emotion.

She frowned, turning her ear towards the stairs, when she heard the voice call out her name again. There was no mistaking who it was.

"Oh, it's Harry. I—" A guilty and reluctant expression hung on her face.

"It's quite all right," he said formally, waving of his hand. "We can continue this later."

She looked as though she was about to say something in return; instead, she frowned and nodded her head, turning to go up stairs and leave him to the silence of the empty parlour.

**-x-**

They spent the next day in awkward silence. She played her jazz records, and he sat with his back against the wall near the door listening, thinking about the way her eyes lit up when she looked up at him while they danced and the way her lips would part, allowing for a sweet sigh to escape.

Salazar, he had it bad. He could never admit it to her, but the dance they had shared confirmed his most bitter-sweet fears: he had feelings for her.

A captive should never fall for his captor. It was wrong, and he knew it. But why did something that was so wrong feel so … right?

Suddenly, the door opened and she walked inside, stirring him from his musings. She had a letter in her hand, and she was turning it over nervously with a worried expression on her face.

"Harry and Kingsley are coming tomorrow," she announced, failing to meet his gaze. Her eyes were shiny and bloodshot. Had she been crying, for him?

"So, the verdict will be tomorrow then?" he asked somewhat resignedly, looking up into her deep caramel eyes.

Her face was long and drawn, whereas his features were inscrutable. "Yeah," she said with a hollow voice. "Did you want anything?"

"One last dance?"

She turned her head and glanced down at him. Tears unabashedly spilled down her cheeks, and she made no attempt to hide them or wipe them away. Instead, she smiled.

"Of course," she replied softly.

Draco offered her his hand, and she took it, helping him to his feet. He squeezed her palm reassuringly as he led her out into the parlour towards the middle of the room. They waited for the next song to play, their eyes glued on one another.

A haunting piano solo started with classical drums, and a lovely, soulful woman's voice rang in the air, tugging at the heartstrings.

_It's not the pale moon that excites me,  
That thrills and delights me. Oh no,  
It's just the nearness of you._

He led her around the room, bringing her in close to him. He loved the way she fit in his arms. If only he could freeze these moments and capture them like snapshots in time, forever immortalised.

_It isn't your sweet conversation  
That brings this sensation. Oh no,  
It's just the nearness of you._

He stepped back and to the side, and she matched him with every step. Their movements were natural and fluid; their timing was impeccable. The moment was perfect, like a fairy tale.

_When you're in my arms,  
And I feel you so close to me,  
All my wildest dreams come true._

She looked up at him and smiled shyly, turning her head to rest it on his chest. He smiled down at her in return and drew her in even closer, resting his chin on top of her soft, red curls. He took in a deep breath, familiarising himself with her sent, the essence that was her.

_I need no soft lights to enchant me,  
If you'll only grant me the right  
To hold you ever so tight  
And to feel in the night,  
The nearness of you._

They held each other tightly as though if they let go they would be lost forever, drowned in the current of reality. Tonight was their night, so they danced it away in each other's willing embrace, hoping against hope that the song would never end.

* * *

**Author's notes:** Would you like some cheese? Hehe. Oh man, me and my cheesy moments. So the first half of this story was unbelievably angst-filled and dark – and now? Now it has some of the fluffiest moments I have ever written. I really hope that it hasn't stepped out of line. I can't help but get sappy with these two sometimes.

I _am_ the Hallmark creator of "Aww" moments. Just give me the silver trophy and move on already. Sheesh!

* * *

**Note on songs**: _I've Got You Under My Skin_ and _The Nearness of You_, were both sung by Frank Sinatra, but I prefer Ella Fitzgerald's covers. When you think of them dancing to _The Nearness of You_, listen to Lady Ella and Louis Armstrong's version of that song. It is gorgeous!


	14. The Verdict

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Fourteen: The Verdict_

_"There is no person so severely punished as those who subject themselves to the whip of their own remorse."_– Seneca

Ginevra sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace and let out a long, laboured sigh. She had been restless all morning, waiting for Harry and Kingsley to arrive at the Hollow to pick up Draco. She folded the piece of parchment in her hand, unfolded it to read it, and then folded it again. The message itself was unimportant; it was the feeling of dread that it stirred inside her.

The letter had simply stated that Kingsley Shacklebolt and Harry Potter were to be expected at Godric's Hollow at nine in the morning, sharp, on 18 December, 1998, to deliver sentence and final verdict to internee, Draco Malfoy. She wanted to toss the official document into the fire and watch it burn and turn into ash, hoping that if it disappeared so would the charges against Draco.

Ginevra set down the letter and bent over, resting her weary head in her hands. She had been up since dawn, awake with worry. In her heart, she believed that she feared this day more than Draco did. On one level, it was because she was going to see a boyfriend who had left her out there – all alone – for almost seven months; on another, more important level, she found herself dreading what Draco's sentence would be. She knew that he had done horrible things and should be penalised in some way, but she also believed that Draco, on the inside, was punishing himself more than any prison ever could. More than anything, she wanted Draco to not go to Azkaban.

With quiet determination, she lifted her head and rose to her feet, walking over to Draco's cell. She brought her knuckles to the door and knocked lightly. There was no response.

"Draco?" she asked softly, and then she heard the soft shuffle of shoes on the hard wooden floor.

"Come in," he answered.

She quietly unlocked the door and stepped inside. She found him in front of his small armoire, taking his clothes off the hangers and folding them neatly inside a medium-sized duffel bag. It was a simple act of packing, yet it made her heart sink to the pit of her stomach.

"They should be here within the hour," she stated dolefully, and he nodded his head with his back to her. "Packing already?" She frowned as he shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"I doubt they're bringing a Dementor with them to perform the Kiss right here, Ginevra," he answered.

A cheeky grin was plastered on his face as he turned to look at her, which dutifully vanished the moment he saw how upset she was. He placed the bag on the floor and leaned back against the counter beside the cupboard, looking at her thoughtfully, even kindly.

"No matter what the verdict is, I highly doubt I will be staying here," he clarified in softer tones, his expression serious.

"Yes, I know, but—" She swallowed hard and shook her head, trying hard not to let her voice waver. "It's going to be very odd, you know," she said, her smile faltering, "not having you around to pester and annoy me."

He laughed softly and shook his head as he leant back on his elbows. "It was a grand arrangement, wasn't it?"

"It almost felt like we were a proper married couple," she quipped dryly.

He nodded. "Yes, no sex, no kisses, and not a single 'I love you'. It was a proper marriage indeed."

She let out a strangled laugh, which quickly petered off, and they both looked down, unable to continue the forced revelry. Instead, Ginevra stood on one foot, bringing the other behind to awkwardly scratch at her calf.

"I, uh …" She paused, almost shyly, and he looked up at her. She could feel the blush rising to her cheeks. "I wanted to give you a gift." She lowered her foot and began to walk over to where he stood.

He gave her a puzzled look as she brought her hand up from behind her back and offered him her soft leather-bound journal. He reached out tentatively to receive it, opening and closing his mouth without saying a word.

"But this is yours," he finally stated, hesitantly handing her back the book.

She shook her head and pressed it back further into his hands, letting her fingers linger on his. "You appreciated it more than I ever did or could," she said, and the blush finally rose to her cheeks. "You wrote in it just as much as I did. It's your journal too, Draco."

His eyes lightened, and he smiled, the kind of smile that made your knees buckle and the air rush out of your lungs. It was genuine and sweet: two adjectives that she had begun to associate with the altered boy standing in front of her. No, not a boy – this was a man.

"Thank you, Ginevra, I—" He glanced down at his feet and cleared his throat. "There's nothing I can give you that would mean as much as this does to me."

Ginevra smiled brightly and stood tall, bringing her hands behind her back. "But don't you see, Draco?" she said with an upward inflection, her warm face beaming up at him. "You just did."

**-x-**

Harry arrived with Kingsley at Godric's Hollow at nine o'clock sharp. Ginny had opened the door hesitantly, and he had to summon all his will power not to leap forward and embrace her, swinging her gaily about in the air. There before him was his sweet and beautiful Ginny. It had been seven long months since he had last seen her, and time had been good to her. She was still a little too skinny for his liking (he supposed it was because she had not been treated to her mother's delicious cooking for quite some time), but she appeared leaner, more toned, with any trace of baby fat gone. Somehow, she seemed older.

Harry stepped across the threshold first and leaned in to plant a chaste kiss on her freckled cheek, but she turned her head and went over to Kingsley instead. He frowned as he watched her take the tall, dark Minister's hand. Kingsley, in turn, warmly shook Ginny's hand and thanked her for her invaluable services to the Ministry. Harry decided to ignore her slight, for now, and settled for a curt hello, as she barely inclined her head towards him in acknowledgement. After the required formalities, she immediately showed them to Malfoy's cell and opened it.

Inside, Malfoy was dressed in a pair of casual black trousers and a grey cashmere jumper. His trademark platinum-blond hair was uncharacteristically long, like his father's, but it was tied back in a green ribbon. His eyes were dark and penetrating. There was a long white scar that cut from beneath his right eye and curved down his jaw toward his ear, accentuating his pale, pointed face. He looked simple yet elegant, young yet seasoned. He was sitting on the end of his bed with a packed bag beside him.

Immediately, Harry was taken aback. This was not the Draco Malfoy he had remembered from school. This eighteen-year-old looked like a man – a man who had seen hard battles with himself. He looked bigger and muscular, unlike his slender form from his days with him on the Quidditch field. While Harry had not been out and about this last year getting exercise, he was fairly certain that Malfoy had because the blond was almost as big as Harry now, maybe bigger.

What truly caught Harry's eye, though, was the long white, jagged scar that Malfoy sported. He hadn't noticed it during the battle at Hogwarts, and no one made mention of such a disfigurement when they arrested the boy in question. Additionally, Ginny wrote no note informing him that Malfoy had been injured. He was unsure of when the blond would have received such a scar, as it didn't appear to look new – it was already white and faded. On most, such a physical disfigurement would have looked unattractive, but on Malfoy it seemed to suit him. It somehow made his more aesthetically pleasing features stand out.

"Draco Malfoy," Kingsley Shacklebolt said, formally addressing the Slytherin and shaking Harry from his own musings. "We have come to release you from your incarceration at Godric's Hollow."

Harry observed Malfoy's reaction, and how his brow creased and then furrowed in confusion.

"All charges against you have been summarily dismissed," Kingsley explained, as he straightened his back and looked down at the brooding blond.

"Dismissed?" Malfoy's voice was laced with scepticism. "But, I tried to _murder _Dumbledore," he said, looking mightily confused. "I almost killed that Bell girl."

"And you put Madam Rosmerta under the Imperius Curse," Kingsley added in an exceptionally low voice, before clearing his throat. "That was the only crime of which we could absolutely charge you with."

Malfoy nodded his head impatiently, as if indicating Kingsley to continue.

"We were going to take you to court and charge you as a minor, where you would have served a light sentence in a juvenile facility—"

"Then why am I not going _there_?" Malfoy asked impatiently, cutting off Kingsley. "I have been imprisoned here for nearly eight months. Was there not a reason for that?" He shook his head in a rueful manner and laughed pitifully. "You just want to let me go unpunished?"

Harry opened his mouth and then closed it, looking over at Kingsley, who was frowning rather thoughtfully. It appeared as though Malfoy did not understand why he was not being punished. Did he believe that he needed to be? Did he _want _to be?

"Let me get this straight, Malfoy," Harry said, addressing Malfoy for the first time. "You _want _to go to prison?"

He didn't understand why Malfoy was protesting. He knew that a man could change in prison, but he didn't see Draco Malfoy as the type who'd want be punished. This was _definitely_ not the boy he once knew from school.

"No," Malfoy replied curtly, not even bothering to look in Harry's direction. His focus was solely on Kingsley. "I just want to know why the charges were dropped."

Harry shook his head and glanced over at Ginny, who was leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest. She was frowning deeply, staring at Malfoy, who didn't even bother to make eye contact with her.

"Your father pleaded guilty to coercing both you and your mother into doing Voldemort's bidding," Harry finally explained, drawing in a deep breath. "He took full responsibility for it, so the charges against both you and your mother were dropped. The Ministry is willing to overlook the use of the Imperius Curse, as your father has convinced us that you did what you did under extreme duress from both himself and Voldemort."

"Consider your incarceration here at Godric's Hollow as 'time served'," Kingsley added, smiling blandly.

Harry could hear an almost inaudible gasp from behind, and he turned to see Ginny covering her mouth with her fingers in absolute shock. She then lowered her hand to her heart, and the most imperceptible smile crept onto her lips, which gave him cause for worry, and he wasn't quite sure why.

"My mother is free?" Malfoy asked, sounding both relieved and hesitant.

This time he was looking at Harry. His eyes were stern, but they were no longer cold.

"Yes," Kingsley replied, answering for Harry, and Malfoy now turned his attention back to the minister. "She is at Malfoy Manor right now."

Malfoy's eyes momentarily widened, and his expression softened. Then his lips twitched and curved downward into a frown. If Harry was not mistaken, the blond looked as though he was worried. Could it be that he was apprehensive about his release? Did he fear his freedom?

Malfoy cleared his throat, wiping any readable expression from his face, and looked up at the minister. "May I go see her?" he asked politely, yet he eyed both Kingsley and Harry warily.

"Of course." Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "Know that you and your family will be monitored for years," he added formally.

Malfoy absently nodded his head in acknowledgement. "Where is my father?" he asked slowly.

Harry turned to observe Ginny's reaction once more. She was fiddling with her wand, twirling it in her hand. She appeared lost in thought. Her smile had quickly faded away to a frown, and she pursed her lips tightly as though she was about to speak but couldn't bring herself to say the words.

"He is finishing his sentence at Azkaban on charges of conspiracy, trespassing, and destruction of property," Kingsley answered in an authoritative tone, and the blond flinched.

Harry saw Malfoy stiffen as though he was preparing himself for a harsh verdict. It was odd to see the blond so emotionally aware of someone else's predicament besides his own. He appeared more concerned about the welfare of his parents than he did of himself.

"He will be serving fifteen to twenty years, depending on behaviour," Kingsley explained, and then saw the look of horror etched on Malfoy's face and held up his hand reassuringly. "But there will be no Dementors at Azkaban."

Malfoy let out a great sigh of relief at this, and so did Ginny.

"You have been given power of attorney and are now the legal benefactor of the Malfoy estate, including property and wealth," Harry stated, speaking up as he cleared his throat. He shook his head, unable to wholly extract himself from the peculiar feelings he felt with this encounter. "You are free to return to Malfoy Manor accompanied by Kingsley here."

Malfoy glanced up, and his mouth fell open.

"Today, if you like." Harry gestured with a wave of his hand. "Or we can wait a day to depart."

Malfoy forcefully shook his head and stood up, grabbing his bag. "I'd like to leave right now."

* * *

**Author's notes: **This may or may not have been what you expected: the sentencing and Draco's choice. I figured the verdict was reasonable and logical. He was a minor when he committed his crimes, and he never officially hurt or killed anyone. His time served, ultimately, was for using the Imperius Curse on Madam Rosmerta. As for his father's light sentence, that was because they really did not have any hard evidence on him. Plus, Lucius has a lot of money, and even the new Ministry could see the value in the Malfoy services.

I felt I had to do Harry's PoV at the end, as it seemed the less emotional and therefore most startling way to deliver both good and bad news. You are left to wonder what is going through both Ginny and Draco's minds. I know you want to reach through the computer screen and throttle me, saying, "Why did Draco do this?" Well … you can't, so there! *sticks out tongue*

Also, please do not hate Harry. It is not my intention to have you hate him. He is just an unobservant boy, who thinks far too much like Dumbledore (for the greater good) to see what he has (or what he has lost) right in front of him. However, you may love Draco more. ^^


	15. Coming Home

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Fifteen: Coming Home_

_"There's nothing half so pleasant as coming home again."_ – Margaret Elizabeth Sangster.

Are there words to describe the feeling of returning to the place of your birth? To walk on the grass of an open playground that you spent your entire childhood memorising – to know where every strand of grass was, every hole, every slope, every clump of dirt?

Draco could only note the sensations, not being someone who was possessed with the ability to properly articulate his thoughts or feelings. All he knew was that he was a free man, and he was returning home.

Home.

It wasn't just a word. It was a sentiment, a notion, a state of being. But the image of home was not just found in brick and surrounding foliage; it was found in family.

He casually passed through the gate and chanced to look up at the manor, taking in the view. A tall, lithe figure stood in the doorway of the house. The wind that so callously assaulted his cloak had not dared to touch the hem of her dress nor one strand of her long silver-blonde hair. Her pale and delicate arms were crossed artfully over her chest. Her stance was rigid yet graceful, and her pointed chin was held high and proud. She was the image of poise and grace. Her pale blue eyes met his grey, and the smallest hint of a smile graced her strikingly stern features, giving him pause.

"Mother," he greeted breathlessly, trying to control the quiver in his voice.

Narcissa nodded her head solemnly as her straight blonde hair shook slightly from its perfect resting place. She uncrossed her arms and lifted them, holding them outward to offer her son her embrace.

"Draco," she whispered back softly, but in a much stronger and steadier tone.

He took a step forward, and she enfolded him into her arms. Breathing a sigh of relief into her silky blonde tresses, he remembered a time when she was taller than he. He was no longer her little boy, and his contrasting height against hers made him realise that he was now the man of the household.

She let go first and took a step back, looking her son up and down from head to foot. She seemed to drink in his changed and hardened appearance with cold and appraising eyes. Nodding her head in slight satisfaction, she seemed as though she was assuring herself that he had been properly fed in her absence. Her eyes lifted to his face, and an almost imperceptible frown crossed her tight lips, darkening her features. She raised delicate fingers to his right cheek, tracing them along the ridge of his scar. Her cold blue eyes began to melt and soften, reflecting an unmistakable look of concern.

"Draco, what happened?" she asked without reprimand, her fingers still lingering on his cheek.

Draco brought her hand to his lips, lovingly kissing the middle two knuckles before squeezing her palm reassuringly. "It is nothing, Mother," he answered with a soft voice, but one that rang with finality.

He would never confess to her what he had done to himself. There was no need. She already had enough sadness in her life, and she did not need him to compound it.

Narcissa let out a barely audible sigh and lowered her head, shaking it in a rueful manner. She looked back up into his eyes, still holding his hand, and forced a smile. Only he knew it was an act – a performance for his benefit.

"Come inside, Draco," she ordered lightly, letting go of his hand as she turned around to open the door. "I'll have Tippy draw you a bath, and then you can come join me for tea."

Draco followed his mother inside, reaching out to hold open the door as she gracefully entered the foyer.

"We have much to discuss," she said, turning around and putting a hand on his arm and looking up at him with unrestrained affection.

Draco swallowed hard and smiled, casting his eyes downward. Stepping inside, he crossed the threshold and closed the door, following his mother towards his old room.

He was home.

"Ginny!" Molly Weasley squealed as she ran (or waddled) over to give her only daughter a big, warm hug and a wet kiss.

Ginevra grinned as her mother cut off all the air to her lungs by crushing her larger frame to her daughter's much slender one. Harry stood with her in the door, grinning foolishly as Ginevra's family clamoured around her.

"I missed you so much, my little poppet," Molly gushed, releasing her daughter from her iron grip but continuing to hold onto her shoulders so that she could inspect her properly. "Dear, you are so skinny. Didn't you eat at all while you were there?" She clucked her tongue in disapproval.

"Molly, let her breathe," Arthur said with a chuckle, and good-naturedly pushed his wife aside to lean down to give his daughter a warm hug and a peck on the cheek.

"Dad!" Ginevra greeted exuberantly, fiercely hugging her father back. It had been so long.

"Yeah, Mum, let the rest of us have the chance to coddle Ginny," George said in a mock reprimanding tone.

Arthur laughed and released Ginevra, stepping aside to allow George to engulf his little sister in his arms and drag her into the house.

"George!" Ginevra kissed her brother's cheek and squeezed him tightly. "Where's Bill and Percy?" she asked, letting go of her 'holy' brother.

"Bill and Fleur are visiting her parents in France this Christmas," a familiar voice mumbled, sounding as though his mouth were stuffed with marbles or food (she hoped the latter). "And Percy should be here shortly."

"Ron!" Ginevra cried, smiling broadly, and ran over to pounce on her youngest brother.

Ron caught his little sister and gave her a big bear hug and then let her down somewhat shyly, noticing that Harry and his family were observing their warm greeting with evil mirth.

"Hullo, Ginny," he said with a goofy grin, stuffing a chocolate frog into his mouth. "It's great to see you."

Ginevra smiled and then laughed at her brother as the chocolate frog managed to squirm its way out of his mouth and fall onto the floor, hopping to safety under their worn but very comfortable sofa. Scowling, he playfully shoved his baby sister, who pushed him back and stole a frog from the semi-melted stash he held loosely in his hand. She popped it into her mouth and smiled triumphantly. Ron then crammed the rest of the frogs into his mouth with a grin and tackled Ginevra onto the couch, tickling her mercilessly.

"Harry, come in, will you," Molly ordered, ignoring Ron and Ginevra's antics as she went to the door and ushered her 'seventh son' inside.

"Where's Hermione?" Ginevra asked breathlessly, kicking Ron to the end of the sofa as Harry took the seat next to her.

"She's at her parents'," Ron answered, looking somewhat gloomy, but then smiled. "She said she's coming to the Burrow after Christmas, though."

"She really missed you, Ginny," Harry added with affection. "We all missed you."

Ginevra forced a smile and turned her head, unable to look her boyfriend in the eye. She felt guilty, but she couldn't bear to admit to herself why.

"All of you come into the kitchen," Molly ordered, waving her hands in a shooing motion. "Dinner is ready. I need to feed my little girl." She pinched her daughter's cheek and looked down at her adoringly.

"Mum," Ginevra whined, but could not help but smile and feel warm at her mother's displays of affection.

"C'mon, Ginny, you've got to admit that you missed Mum's food," George said, putting an arm around her shoulder and seating her next to him at the dinner table, while Harry took the chair on the other side.

"Oh, trust me, I have!" Ginevra admitted with a grin and an emphatic nod of her head.

They all sat down at the dinner table as her mother began to flit about, putting pots on the table and slapping at George's and Ron's hands with the wooden spoon when they tried to sneak their fingers inside to have a taste.

Percy finally arrived with presents in arms to put under the tree (never one to do last-minute shopping) and gave Ginevra a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. He sat down at the table beside their father, who smiled down at his industrious son and tussled his hair in an affectionate manner. Percy tried to look put out about it but failed. Instead, he threw a nasty scowl in George and Ron's direction.

"It's good to have you home, Ginny," Arthur said, beaming at his daughter while his wife began to pass around the plate of sliced chicken.

Ginevra blushed and lowered her head. "It's good to be home." She had never realised how much she had missed her family until she was reunited with them. There really was no place like home.

"Yeah, it must be great to get away from that git Malfoy," Ron commented with a laugh, piling mashed potatoes onto his plate. "I still can't believe he got off."

Ginevra frowned and looked down at her fork. She couldn't very well explain to Ron of all people that Draco Malfoy wasn't a git. Well, at least he wasn't anymore. None of them would understand. Hell, even she couldn't understand it.

"His father took full responsibility, didn't he?" George asked, glancing over at Harry for confirmation.

"Yeah," Harry replied absently, scooping various foods and piling them onto his plate.

"Yeah, but the stupid pillock should have still been punished," Ron stated vehemently, shaking his head as a scowl slipped onto his face.

"Ronald, watch your language at the dinner table!" Molly frowned, reprimanding her son, and then looked over at Ginevra and smiled, passing her the peas.

"Sorry, Ginny," Ron apologised, looking genuinely shame-faced. "I didn't mean to stir up any bad memories for you."

Ginevra glanced up at him with a look of puzzlement on her face.

"I'm really proud of you, Ginny."

Ginevra's nonplussed expression disappeared entirely, and she blushed humbly, glancing up at her brother with unmasked gratitude at the words that he had so freely spoken.

"Thanks, Ron," she said, smiling shyly. She couldn't help but love the boy.

"We're all proud of you," Harry said beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing it affectionately.

Everyone looked up and nodded their heads in agreement, murmuring words of praise to the silent and blushing redhead.

Ginevra turned her head and looked down at her food. She couldn't help but frown at their words of adulation. Her family may have been proud of her for what she had done, but the sinking feeling of guilt that weighed in her stomach made it difficult for her to accept it. She didn't feel especially proud of herself. She felt empty and lost.

Draco escorted his mother to the well-lit extravagant shop. She had persuaded Draco to join her on a last-minute shopping trip to Diagon Alley. He had already purchased his parents' Christmas gifts in Paris and had no need to buy anything else, but he decided to join her anyway. They would not be allowed to visit his father at Azkaban until January, but they were allowed to send and receive owls, which would be monitored. The new Ministry allowed scheduled visits once a month, so it wasn't as bad as it had once been. Plus, there were no more Dementors.

Narcissa had fared well at her term spent at the Ministry under lock and key. She seemed more relaxed and gentler than Draco had remembered her, and sadder too in some ways. He supposed they both shared that, the loneliness. While captivity may harden most people, it seemed to soften the edges around Malfoys, or at least his mother and himself. He could not account for his father. He doubted nothing short of a miracle could change Lucius's temperament.

His mother, however, had not lost her touch to effectively order around the house-elves, or her son. Their trip to Diagon Alley was, in part, her subtle way of recommending that he get a haircut. She admitted that she liked his hair long, but the way he wore it reminded her too much of Lucius, and Draco didn't need his presence and likeness to his father to bring his mother any more pain; therefore, he relented to her demands.

Leaning down to give his mother an affectionate kiss on the cheek, Draco departed to attend to his own business, leaving Narcissa to shop. One thing Draco appreciated about his mother was that she did not spend hours lingering in stores. She knew exactly what she was going to buy and bought it. Rarely did she ever window shop.

Draco was on his way to meet his appointment with the barber down the street when a group of people suddenly stepped out of the shadows and accosted him, blinding him with flashing lights.

"Mister Malfoy, tell us how it feels to be a free wizard?" a reporter asked.

Draco rose a hand to shield his face from the bright, flashing bulbs. How did these bleeding berks know that he was here? Snooping sods!

"Mister Malfoy?" another voice enquired.

Draco immediately turned on his heel and Apparated into thin air with a pop. He surreptitiously turned up on the other side of the barbershop (as he was not going to let the press make him miss an appointment involving hair care), nestled snugly behind a large open trash bin. It only figured with his luck. At least he didn't Apparate inside the bloody thing.

_Stupid press_, Draco thought to himself with a scowl, raising his hood and drawing his cloak tighter about his person.

"Harry, I'm going to get some hot cocoa at Belinda's Café."

Draco immediately froze and turned his head in the direction of that unmistakably familiar voice. It was Ginevra Weasley … and she was with Harry Potter.

"Okay, Ginny," he heard Potter say, and the ruddy ponce leaned down and gave the redhead a kiss on the cheek.

Draco narrowed his eyes on the boy with the rounded spectacles and the dark, floppy fringe, and his nostrils flared. He was seething with several conflicting emotions, partly rage but mainly jealousy.

"How about we all meet up at George's, at eight?" Potter suggested.

Draco's scowl only deepened when he saw Ginevra look up at the useless tosspot and smile.

"Sounds good. See you and Ron there later."

Ginevra almost ran to the coffee shop, trying to escape Harry as fast as she could. Since she got home he had been trying to make up for abandoning her at Godric's Hollow for all those months by hanging out with her at every possible opportunity. She knew he meant well, but his actions only made her feel suffocated and nervous. She just didn't feel comfortable around Harry anymore.

This time, however, they were not alone. She, Ron, and Harry had decided to go to Diagon Alley to do a little bit of shopping and meet up with her other brother, George. She and Harry had been hanging outside Madam Grey's for the past twenty minutes. They were waiting for Ron, who was inside shopping for Hermione. He refused to let Ginevra or Harry assist him in finding a gift for his girlfriend. Ginevra figured that Ron was too embarrassed or something to that effect, which made her wonder what exactly he was buying Hermione. He could have at least let them wait inside in the warmth of the store. It was freezing outside.

Ginevra opened the door to the café and walked inside, quickly finding an empty seat. The waitress – young, blonde, and ample-chested – came over and offered Ginevra a warm smile as she took her order for a large hot cocoa with extra whipped cream and a sprinkle of chocolate flakes. After ordering, Ginevra glanced out the window and watched a busker earn his living on the cold, well-lit street. The waitress walked over to the counter to give the order and then quickly made her way back to Ginevra and conjured her drink and a napkin.

Snaking her hands around the mug, Ginevra hoped to bring warmth and feeling back into her numb fingers. She took a tentative sip of the cocoa and smiled, knowing that she wouldn't have to apply a Cooling Charm. They had prepared it perfectly. When she brought the mug back to her lips for another sip, she glanced up to notice an older blonde woman open the door and step inside the tiny café. She was tall and slender and very pale, with long, straight silver-blonde hair. Her eyes were crystal-blue, taking on a hue of grey in the soft light of the café.

Ginevra took a large gulp of her cocoa and almost choked. It was the woman from the paper that Harry had shown her earlier that day – a lady she dimly remembered from the battle at Hogwarts. It was Narcissa Malfoy, Draco's mother.

The stately woman took a seat near the window opposite of Ginevra and politely summoned the waitress. The busty blonde almost tripped over the several large bags filled with ornately wrapped parcels that the older woman had seated on the floor beside her foot. Narcissa frowned slightly at the younger blonde's lack of grace and picked up her bags, placing them on the seat next to her. She smiled tightly at the waitress and promptly ordered an Earl Grey.

Ginevra sat at her table in silent contemplation, drinking her hot cocoa and trying desperately not to stare at the woman who sat only a few feet in front of her. She wondered if she should approach her and ask how Draco was doing. No. If he wanted her to know, he would have sent her an owl, Flooed her, or something. Ginevra would be foolish to believe that he cared. Still, she should enquire into his health. It was the polite thing to do.

Finishing her drink in one large gulp, Ginevra wiped at her mouth with the napkin and tried to build up her courage. She knew she wasn't exactly the picture of etiquette, but no one could accuse Ginevra Weasley of being filthy and covered in chocolate … at least not in public. She stood up and straightened out her cloak. Thank Merlin she had worn something half-decent today.

She took a shaky step forward at first and then managed to drag her other foot around to place it in front, slowly approaching the unaware blonde who was engrossed in the paper she had set in front of her.

"Missus Malfoy?" Ginevra asked hesitantly.

Narcissa glanced up with teacup in hand, quickly and subtly appraising the redhead with calculating eyes. "Yes?" she asked sharply but with proper formality, a small but polite smile on her lips. It was obviously forced.

"M-My name is Ginny, G-Ginevra Weasley," she stuttered, correcting herself. "I am sorry to interrupt you, but I was wondering if I could ask how your son is doing, h-how Draco is doing?"

Narcissa pursed her lips together and lowered her cup, looking up at Ginevra with dark, cold eyes. To say that the woman was intimidating was an understatement.

"I'm sorry, but I am afraid I am not giving comments to the press at this point in time," she answered in a sharp, clipped tone.

Ginevra shook her head and waved her hands in front of her chest in a defensive manner. "Oh, no, no, I'm not from the papers. I – never mind," she said, coming to conclusion that this woman before her would never take her seriously. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

She turned around, her shoulders slumped forward in defeat, and began to walk away when Narcissa's haughty tone broke through the chatter and noise inside the busy café.

"Wait," Narcissa called out softly but with authority, and Ginevra turned around to find the woman still in her chair, staring at her intently. "Ginny?" The look on the blonde's face indicated that she was waiting for confirmation that 'Ginny' was, indeed, the redhead's actual name.

"Uh, yes," Ginevra replied, tentatively walking back over to the table where the blonde sat. "Ginevra, actually." She absently wondered if Draco's mother would appreciate her given name over her nickname. She wasn't sure why, but she wanted to impress Missus Malfoy.

"Ginevra," Narcissa repeated, her voice neither harsh nor soft. "That is a much prettier name than Ginny."

Ginevra slightly lowered her head, refusing to react to what was most likely an unintentional insult. Ginevra had been called Ginny all her life. She did not believe it to be an ugly name; however, she supposed that 'Ginevra' did sound more ladylike and grown-up.

"You're Molly and Arthur Weasley's daughter, correct?" Narcissa asked, not waiting for the redhead to interject.

"Yes," Ginevra replied simply, expecting a slight on her parents to follow, but it never came.

They stared at each other in icy silence for a moment until Narcissa finally cut the tension by speaking first.

"You are the one who looked after my son," the regal blonde stated rather than asked.

"Yes, I was his …" Ginevra paused, recalling how Missus Malfoy had stressed that Ginevra had merely looked after her son and had not been his jailer. "I looked after him, yes."

Narcissa let the briefest of smiles pass her lips. It was a cold and tight smile, far from inviting, but it did not appear feigned like the one she had given Ginevra earlier.

"He is doing well," she stated, finally answering Ginevra's original question. "I shall tell him that you enquired about his health." She raised the cup to her lips to take another sip.

Ginevra fumbled with her hands. She had not thought about Missus Malfoy informing her son about their talk, and she suddenly became more nervous than she had been when she first approached the taller commanding woman.

"Oh, no," Ginevra spoke up, waving her hands once more, "that's okay." She let her arms fall to her side as she saw the stately woman raise an eyebrow in curiosity. "I just wanted to know …"

Narcissa lowered her cup to the saucer and folded her hands on the table. She had her head tilted ever so slightly as she looked up and examined the nervous-looking redhead. She seemed to be appraising Ginevra, judging her, waiting for her to slip up and say something stupid.

"I'm sorry," Ginevra apologised, slightly bowing her head. "I should really get going." She glanced around nervously. "My friends are waiting."

With a curt goodbye, Ginevra turned around and almost ran head first into an elderly witch who had just entered the café. She mumbled a hurried apology and sheepishly excused herself, bounding out the door.

Narcissa's deep blue eyes followed the redhead's path. A look of mild interest registered on her lovely face as she lifted a pale blonde eyebrow. Her lips pursed into slight frown before she regained her normal composure and brought her teacup back up to take another sip.

Something was most definitely up.

* * *

**Author's notes: **I stole Kim's Tippy! I was beta-ing A Marriage of Convenience, and the house-elf in her story popped into my head when I wrote this. I considered changing it, but then I decided to keep it and pay homage to Kim and AMoC (not a very good homage, mind you). ^_~


	16. Life Goes On

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Sixteen: Life Goes On_

_"Life goes on within you and without you."_ – George Harrison's (Beatles) song _Within You Without You_from Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album.

The holidays had come and gone, much like the ever-changing seasons. Draco and his mother had managed to make a visit to Azkaban to see Lucius, who seemed well, despite the sullen and caustic exterior. He was his normal self, really. The Ministry had promised that they would be allowed more visits in the future, and Lucius ended up doing something rather shocking before they left: openly kissing Narcissa on the cheek and embracing Draco.

Time seemed to flew by after that. A month had passed and then another and Draco had yet to go out in public on a regular basis, as the word of his release and return was still somewhat newsworthy. Luckily, the wizarding world had started to become more interested in reading about former Death Eaters being caught by Aurors at the far corners of the earth, in continents like Asia and Australia. Though Draco could breathe more freely now, he rarely ventured into Diagon Alley. Something in the pit of his stomach that nagged all the way up to the recesses of his mind prevented him from doing so.

Instead of going out, he remained indoors and kept correspondence with old mates, like Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott. In fact, for the past few weeks Blaise had been persistent in sending him invites. Narcissa insisted that Draco go see the darkly handsome boy and stop moping about the manor, but Draco was unable to so easily leave the confines of his home. It wasn't as though he had become institutionalised. He had only been imprisoned for eight months. But it didn't prevent him from feeling hesitant about going out into public spaces, especially ones filled with people. His mother suspected that he had begun to develop a type of agoraphobia or social phobia.

Unfortunately, Narcissa was not sympathetic to his plight, and she refused to stand by and watch her son lock himself up in his room or in the library all day and night. He only came out for meals or to stroll about the gardens. It was ridiculous, and Draco knew it was absurd and that he would eventually grow out of this paranoia. It just took time. Narcissa, however, was impatient and would not afford him such a luxury. So, as luck would have it – and in the typical fashion of Narcissa – his mother sent Blaise an invitation to join them for tea.

Draco had been infuriated with her at first. He did not feel like receiving guests, even one as tolerable as his old housemate. He had thought to speak up and tell her no, but the steel-like firmness in her ice-blue eyes quickly deterred him. She only wanted what was best for him and she was right: he should quit his brooding and be active in society once more. He was the head of the Malfoy family now. He didn't have time to sit around and mope.

One of the house-elves popped in to inform him of Zabini's arrival. Draco went to the door to greet the tall, dark young man as Narcissa took a seat on the chaise in the parlour.

"Blaise," Draco greeted cordially, welcoming his guest inside. "It is good to see you."

"Draco," Blaise returned with good humour, taking Draco's offered hand and shaking it firmly as he stepped into the foyer. "It's good to see what's left of you." He pointed to Draco's scar and lift a dark eyebrow in curiosity. "I see you got into a tussle. I'd hate to see what the other bloke looks like."

Draco couldn't stop the smile from creeping onto his lips or the laugh that escaped his throat shortly thereafter. He patted his mate on the back and ushered him into the sitting room, glad that his mother had arranged this meeting. Blaise followed and smiled charmingly before bowing formally to Narcissa, who lay reclining on the chaise.

Narcissa glanced up at the suave young wizard and offered him a polite smile. "It is good to see you looking so well, Mister Zabini."

"As you, m'lady," Blaise artfully countered, taking off his coat and gloves and handing them to the house-elf. "You do become more beautiful each time I see you."

Draco rolled his eyes and gritted his teeth.

Narcissa subtly raised a pale blonde eyebrow and smiled thinly. "We should lock your tongue with the rest of the silverware, Mister Zabini."

"Please, call me Blaise," he rejoined with a silky voice, straightening the arch of his back.

Draco shook his head and let out a soft growl, taking his old housemate by the arm. "C'mon, _Blaise_, let's retire to the study."

As Draco dragged Blaise from his mother, she called out behind him, forcing Draco to stop and turn around.

"Draco, I am having guests over shortly," she announced, leaning down to pick up her teacup from the table. "I expect you and Mister Zabini to join me when I call for you." As always, there was no suggestion in her tone.

"Yes, Mother," he replied curtly but respectfully, taking Blaise's arm once more and guiding him towards his father's study.

"Your mother is—"

"Don't start, Zabini," Draco threatened, cutting Blaise off before he could finish his sentence.

The charming boy grinned in a roguish manner and took the high-back leather seat by the window. Draco went to the liquor cabinet and offered Blaise a drink, which he politely declined. Draco then poured himself a snifter of brandy and took the seat behind his father's desk, putting his feet up.

"So how are you doing, really?" Blaise asked after a moment of silence, eyeing the blond with silent contemplation.

"I'm well," Draco replied honestly, taking a sip of his drink. "I have just become rather sedentary as of late."

Blaise leaned back in his chair and laughed, examining the blond's physique. "Well, you don't look it, mate. You have got to tell me your secret."

"Solitude for eight months," Draco answered dryly, swirling his brandy in the snifter.

Blaise made a face. "Oh, well, I can't have that. It would be a terrible loss for women everywhere," he said, shaking his head and looking ever so serious. "I suppose I will have to keep relying on what bountiful gifts the gods gave me." He grinned.

"Yes," Draco agreed without enthusiasm.

"Eight months entirely alone?" Blaise asked, frowning and shrugging his shoulders forward. "It must have been dreadful."

Draco took another drink, quickly finishing his brandy. "Well, I wasn't _entirely_ alone."

"No?" Blaise asked, his interest piqued. "I suppose there was your jailer." His golden eyes lightened with curiosity and merriment. "Who was it?"

Draco got up and went back over to the bar to pour himself another drink. "Ginevra Weasley," he answered quietly, his back turned to his old schoolmate.

"That must have been fun," Blaise drawled facetiously. "At least you had something attractive to look at." He crossed his legs. "How you managed to walk away without throttling the self-righteous little Gryffindor, I must admit, is a rather remarkable feat."

Draco couldn't help himself from smiling into his drink. "She became tolerable over time," he admitted, turning to face his old mate.

"I see," Blaise hummed, casting Draco a sidelong glance before quickly schooling his features. "So, what employment have you been considering whilst roaming the endless hallways and stairwells of the manor?"

Draco walked back over to the desk and took a seat, bringing the snifter up to his lips to take another sip. "I am not sure yet," he answered, frowning. "Mother tells me that I should wait to decide on a career choice until the publicity surrounding my arrest and imprisonment has completely died down."

Blaise nodded his head in understanding. "Yes, that would be wise."

"What are you up to?" Draco asked with genuine curiosity.

"Foreign investments and acquisitions at Gringotts. Tedious work, really," Blaise answered, waving his hand dismissively. "I figure I will scrap it all entirely and live the playwizard's dream of long nights and fast women."

Draco rolled his eyes at the moral turpitude of the ex-Slytherin.

"So, are there any women in your life right now?" Blaise asked, a sly grin rising to his lips.

Draco's brow furrowed. "No," he answered quickly – a bit too quickly.

"Mummy hasn't set you up with anyone yet?"

"Thank Merlin, no," Draco breathed with relief.

"Give her time," Blaise said with a knowing wink.

"Don't remind me," he said bitterly with a scowl.

Draco took another sip of his brandy and settled back in his chair. He tilted his head to the side and felt the liquor begin to warm his blood, relaxing him. It also caused his mind to wander, threatening to infringe upon memories of a girl covered in bubbles and laughing at him as she splashed water in his face, melting into his arms as he led her across the floor in a dance, letting her fingers linger on his face as she wiped soap from his chin …

"You sure there's no girl?" Blaise asked, waking Draco from his reverie.

"Yes," he replied in a startled manner, clearing his throat and sitting up in his chair. "I am sure."

Blaise looked at him askance and smacked his lips distastefully, seeming entirely unconvinced. He uncrossed his legs and sat up. "I realise that you don't want to have your title as Lord of Stoicism tarnished, Draco, but I can read you better than the bold print on a gold Galleon."

Draco breathed out through his nostrils and let out a disgruntled sigh. "I have lost my mysticism, then?"

Blaise sat back in his chair and tented his fingers together. "And a great deal more, I'm sure," he commented dryly. "You might as well tell me, Draco."

"Tell you what?" the blond asked over his drink.

To the keen eye, and to one who knew him well, Draco looked somewhat startled and nervous. Blaise, being one of those people and a wizard with remarkable perception, stared at the blond pointedly until Draco looked away and shook his head.

"And why should I?" he asked, casting the dark-haired boy an annoyed look.

"Because you have no one else willing to listen," Blaise answered simply.

Draco shook his head, somewhat defeated. "It's nothing, no one. I would rather forget about her."

Blaise's lips twitched upward into a smirk. "Mate, I have never seen you so worked up over a bird before."

"I'm not worked up!" Draco exclaimed, setting down his snifter of brandy.

"No," Blaise rejoined sardonically with a shake of his head, "you're the picture of calmness – a real Zen Master."

"Stuff it, Zabini," Draco muttered back, irritated with how insightful and annoying his mate could be.

"I could stuff it in that Weasley girl if you like," Blaise suggested, grinning.

Draco whipped his head around to scowl menacingly at the golden-eyed boy, who merely laughed.

"Oh, I hit a nerve, did I? I think we found your X-factor."

"My what?" Draco asked, still deeply angered.

Blaise shook his head and raised a hand. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

"Zabini," Draco growled warningly through gritted teeth.

The golden-eyed boy was fast-reaching Draco's tolerance threshold and quickly wearing out his welcome.

"It's nice to know that I haven't lost my ability to rile you up," Blaise remarked, smirking as he crossed his legs once more.

"Yes, I'm happy for you," Draco said cuttingly.

"Me too." Blaise smiled smugly. "So, you and the Weasley girl had a tawdry fling?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No!"

"A rough and tumble between the sheets?"

"No, never!" Draco cried. "She's not that kind of girl!"

"She's not, huh?" Blaise asked sceptically. "How would you know?"

"I just do," he answered curtly.

Blaise seemed to smile triumphantly and shook his head. "No, you're not infatuated at all."

Draco merely stared at Blaise and scowled.

"You have Stockholm Syndrome, mate," Blaise stated after a moment, nodding his head.

"What's that, some stupid Muggle term?" Draco asked acidly.

"Yes, it's where a captive sympathises with his captor, often falling in love with her," he explained.

Draco's eyes momentarily widened, pondering the notion for a spell. "Well, how do I get rid of this feeling?" he asked quietly.

Blaise's brow creased. "What, infatuation or love?" he asked. When Draco did not respond, Blaise frowned and shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "I guess you try to move on."

Draco took another sip from his drink, eyeing it coolly. He may have disliked Blaise at this particular moment, but the man was right. Draco couldn't live in the past. As much as he believed that he liked Ginevra, he had to forget about her because she didn't feel the same way about him. He had to move on.

"Life goes on, nay?" Draco raised his glass in the air.

Blaise bowed his head and smiled. "Indeed. The world does keep on spinning."

Just then, a house-elf Apparated into the room with a pop. "Master, Mistress requires you and Master Zabini to join her and her guests in the parlour," the bat-eared creature announced in a raspy voice.

"Lovely," Draco said, rolling his eyes as he dismissed the elf.

He and Blaise strode into the sitting room to see his mother seated with three women, one of whom he recognised immediately.

"Mother."

Narcissa turned her head around and smiled at her son. "Draco, I'm so glad that you and Mister Zabini could join us," she said with what one would assume warmth, but Draco knew that his mother was somewhat annoyed – with him, he was unsure of. "Missus Greengrass and her two daughters, Daphne and Astoria, have delightfully accepted our invitation for tea." Narcissa held up a delicate hand to indicate the two younger girls who sat opposite of the stately blonde.

"Missus Greengrass," Draco greeted the older woman, curtly bowing to her, and then glanced over at his ex-housemate and her younger sister. "Daphne. Astoria." He inclined his head towards them both.

Daphne looked as though she was fighting the urge to scowl at him, but the younger blonde, Astoria, looked up at him with wide rapturous eyes.

"Ladies," Blaise greeted, bowing lowly, never one to be outdone.

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his dramatic friend.

"It is good to see you looking so … well, Draco," Missus Greengrass said slowly, searching the young man's face and noting his scar. "It is also lovely to see you, Mister Zabini."

Blaise grinned at this and subtly winked at Daphne.

"Please, gentlemen, sit down," Narcissa ordered politely, pointing to the two chairs that were situated beside the younger girls.

Draco felt a frown creep onto his lips but summarily dismissed it, feigning a charming smile that his mother had taught him when he was young. Both he and Blaise took a seat. Astoria blushed slightly and glanced over at Draco, who sat rigidly in his chair, clearing his throat as the house-elf served tea.

Blaise leaned over and put his lips to Draco's ear. "Told you to just give her time," he whispered mockingly.

Draco could almost feel Blaise grinning at him, and he hated how he was almost always right. It was obvious that his mother had intended to set him up with either Daphne or Astoria. Draco stole a glance, subtly appraising the younger blonde. Astoria was certainly pretty and seemed to be not nearly as obnoxious as her sister or, Merlin forbid, Pansy. She had somewhat of an impish quality to her. She didn't gush or whisper or act like a twit in his presence. She seemed rebellious and playful. Her eyes were almond-shaped and green, with flecks of gold, shimmering a soft hazel colour.

Suddenly, she let out a soft peal of laughter, not a controlled laugh like her mother or sister, but a belly-rumbling sound that was filled with glee. Her mother glanced down at her disapprovingly, but the girl ignored her, laughing heartily as her eyes twinkled in the light. In that moment, she reminded him of Ginevra.

Draco scowled. He had to stop thinking about the infernal redhead. She was with Harry Potter. She had made her choice, and he was not it. The entire time he had been here at the manor, wallowing in his own misery, she had not once tried to contact him. She was too busy making mooneyes at Potter or worse. His stomach churned at the thought of what they could be doing together.

Draco knew that Ginevra didn't care about him. She just saw him as a prisoner and she his guard. It truly was time for him to get over her, and maybe he'd start with the playful blonde sitting next to him. If he had to convince himself that she was someone else to move on then he would.

**-x-**

Time went by agonisingly slow for Ginevra. She had missed the beginning term at Hogwarts, so she couldn't start her seventh year at school until next Fall. She had spent a month at the Burrow, enjoying all the family fun, but when everyone left, including Ron, she was left to herself, alone with her thoughts and feelings. After a 'free ride' month, her mother had begun to demand that she start doing chores in order to earn her keep. It was then that Ginevra decided that it would be best to get away and find a job in the city.

Ginevra knew that without her full education she could not get whatever job she liked. She was not as fortunate as Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Her temporary problems were solved when George invited her to stay with him at his loft above the shop. He also offered her a job at the joke shop, which was tedious, but she earned money. Plus it helped her keep her mind off other things, like a certain someone.

After the glow of being back with her family waned, she began to feel as though something was missing in her life. Harry had gone off again, leading the Auror campaign to find the last Death Eaters who were in hiding. He always had to playing the hero. He was a Leo and a Gryffindor: it was in his nature. However, it was not in Ginevra's nature to be so easily dismissed.

They'd had numerous altercations via Floo (well, she yelled and he meekly listened). A few nights past and, after being stood up for a date (again), she Flooed him and just let loose. She called him a string of names, all very indecent, and then told him she never wanted to see him again. He immediately tried to contact her, but she refused to see him or speak with him. George had to turn him away several times and, luckily, he hadn't once scolded her or told her she should give Harry a second chance. George was awesome like that.

After her shift was over, she went up to her room to lay down on her bed. She was exhausted – mentally and physically. She reached for a book on her bedside cabinet and knocked it off onto the floor. Leaning over, she began to feel around until she pulled out the book and sat back up. Her face fell. It was her old copy of _Wuthering Heights_. She tentatively put her fingertips to the worn novel. How many times had Draco read this book?

She opened the cover and leafed through the pages – pages _he_had touched. Putting down the book, she let out a weary sigh. Why was she still thinking about him? It had been months – months of no letters, no Flooing, no contact of any kind. He had forgot her; he had abandoned her. He didn't care. She was his former jailer to him, not his friend, not his …

She threw herself down onto the bed and buried her face in a pillow. She had fallen for Draco Malfoy – head-over-heels, tits-over-ass. It didn't sound very fitting but neither was their 'relationship'. She was a fool to believe that there could be something between them, but she was a romantic at heart. Try as she might to be brave, strong, and independent, Ginevra Weasley was an idealist and thought Draco might not be her ideal, what she felt when she was with him was magical, simply put.

Ginevra sat up on her bed and put on her determined face. If Draco were too reserved or too embarrassed to contact her then she would contact him. She went over to her small desk and took out a piece of parchment and a quill, unscrewing the top to the inkpot. She dipped the quill in the ink and began to scribble furiously. She didn't think of what she was going write; she just wrote it. Once finished, she stood up and began rolling up the parchment until it was tiny. She then walked over to Bee-Bee, a gift from Hermione, and roused the tiny grey owl from its sleep and gently wrapped the parchment around its leg.

"To Draco Malfoy at Malfoy Manor, Bee-Bee. Hurry," she told the small bird as she opened her window to let the owl take flight.

Ginevra watched Bee-Bee take off with her letter and frowned. What if Draco ignored her letter? What if he wrote her back? There were so many questions, and she needed someone to discuss them with. Normally, when she wanted advice, she'd turn to her mother or Hermione. She couldn't this time. They were both too close to Harry and wouldn't understand her relationship with Draco.

Grabbing her coat, Ginevra ran downstairs into the shop and out the door, waving to George as she went and telling him that she'd be back later. She jogged around the corner and stopped, closing her eyes and concentrating with all her mind. She tried to remember the house that looked like a chess rook with a large black cylinder behind it, accented with a ghostly-looking moon and a sign on the front gate that read '_Keep off the Dirigible Plums_'.

With a loud pop, she Apparated to her chosen destination. She walked forward and opened the creaky gate, making her way up the zig-zag path. She rapped her knuckles on thick, black door studded with iron nails, the eagle-shaped knocker jiggling with each knock. After a moment, the door opened and a pair of large blue eyes met her amber-coloured ones.

"Ginny," a soft voice said without question, as though Ginevra's arrival was anticipated, or the fact that it was illogical for one to ask a question that one already had the answer to.

"Hey, Luna," Ginevra said, smiling up at the doe-eyed blonde. "I'm sorry to come unannounced. May I come in?"

Luna Lovegood nodded her head and smiled, opening the door wide and stepping to the side, allowing the redhead to enter. "How can I help you, Ginny?" she asked, getting to the point as she ushered the ex-Gryffindor into the parlour to take a seat. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, please," Ginevra said, answering Luna's second question.

"Earl Grey or Creetrab Bark?"

"Uh, Earl Grey, please," Ginevra chose politely, wondering what exactly Creetrab was.

Luna smiled and conjured a tea set, pouring Ginevra and herself two steaming cups of Earl Grey. Ginevra took a sip, feeling the tea slowly calm her nerves.

"I came here, Luna, because I really need someone to talk to."

"You can talk to me about anything, Ginny," Luna said, her smile widening. "Is there something wrong?"

Ginevra shook her head. "Yes and no." She took in a deep breath. "There's this boy I like."

"Harry?"

"No, not Harry."

Ginevra swallowed nervously, but Luna did not frown or speak. She merely listened. "It's Draco Malfoy," she admitted quickly, lowering her head before sheepishly glancing up at Luna.

She had been expecting a look of shock or disgust to register on the blonde's face. Instead, Luna only looked at her with soft, warm eyes, waiting for the redhead to continue.

"As you may know, I was the one who looked after him while he was under arrest at Godric's Hollow. I was his jailer," Ginevra clarified, clearing her throat uncomfortably.

If Luna was unaware of this fact, she did not show it. Again, her face remained impassive yet comforting, reassuring.

"I-I became close with him," Ginevra stuttered, still unsure why Luna was not reacting to this information.

"Well, you were both living in the same house," the blonde finally commented with a soft, airy voice.

Ginevra couldn't help but roll her eyes. "Luna!"

Luna's doe eyes creased upward into smiles at the redhead's outburst, and Ginevra's mouth opened in shock. Was Luna being sarcastic?

"I know what you meant," Luna said, offering the redhead a mischievous grin that belied the otherwise wistful expression on her face. "I thought I'd attempt levity to distract you."

"Thanks," Ginevra said dryly, sitting back in her chair to glare at the blonde.

Luna only smiled. "How close did you two get?" she asked, setting down her cup.

Ginevra let out a sigh and dropped her head. "Closer than anyone I have ever been with, including Harry."

"Oh?"

"He knows so much about me, Luna, and I him," Ginevra stated with passion. "He's really not that bad once you get to know him. Sure, he's still an arrogant, bigoted prat, but he's trying – trying to become a better man." She looked up at the ceiling with a dreamy expression on her freckled face. "He listened to me, Luna, really listened." She blushed shyly. "He even taught me how to dance."

Luna raised a blonde eyebrow. "That sounds like an interesting prisoner-guard arrangement."

Ginevra shook herself from her reverie and let out another big sigh.

"What else happened?" Luna asked, intuitively knowing that there was more to this relationship that listening and dancing.

"I – He – We kissed," Ginevra admitted.

Luna nodded her head. "What was it like?"

Ginevra smiled in remembrance. "Our lips touched only for an moment, but …" She paused and then let out a wistful sigh. "It was wonderful, Luna. It felt natural. It felt like home."

Luna sat back in her chair. "I think you have developed Florence Nightingale Syndrome," she stated as a matter-of-fact.

Ginevra looked up. "What's that?"

"It's a Muggle term for when a nurse falls in love with her patient," she answered, and then smiled knowingly at Ginevra. "Or, in your case, it is where a jailer falls in love with her prisoner."

Ginevra swallowed hard and looked up at her dear friend. "What do I do about it?"

"What do you _want_ to do about it?" Luna asked.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully, looking down into her teacup.

After a moment of silence, Luna leaned forward and put her hand on Ginevra's knee. "Follow your heart if you can't understand the incoherent babbling of your mind," she offered sagely.

"Is that logical?"

"No, Ginny." Luna shook her head and smiled. "That's love."


	17. Choices

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Seventeen: Choices_

_*A tacked-on piece of parchment._

_16 December 1998_

_Revenge is a dish best served cold … and muddy. I finally got back at Ginevra for breaking my wand by pushing her face-first into the mud. It only took seven months for me to execute my well-laid plan, and it felt good. Unfortunately, she exacted her revenge by reading selected passages from that horrid Muggle book Pride and Prejudice. I swear to Salazar that this redhead is evil! Good thing that evil goes well with whatever I wear, nay?_

_I do realise that, at some point, I will have to give this diary back to her. I know she gave it to me as a gift and all, but I feel that this rightfully belongs to her, not I. _

_She – __you__ will read this, Ginevra, and all I want you to know is that – well, never mind. It doesn't really matter right now. Just know that mud looks good on you, as do bubbles. I hope some day we can have these sort of interactions outside these walls (minus my disadvantage of being wandless – still really have not forgiven you for that by the way), and that you can see me as more than a prisoner … for I see you as much more than a guard._

"Draco?"

"Hmm, yes?" he asked, shaken from his reverie.

"I asked you if you like the green dress or the white?" Astoria asked

His girlfriend modelled a short, dark-green cocktail dress hanging on the wire in front of her and then switched it out for the longer, white formal gown.

"Green," Draco answered absently, looking back down at his journal.

He had gone up to his room earlier to retrieve the pair of emerald earrings that he had bought Astoria for her birthday. When he had opened the drawer to his desk to locate the box, he found the old, leather-bound journal of Ginevra's. Frowning, he had traced his fingers along the soft cover. He had almost forgot that he still had it. Almost. Then one of the house-elves reminded him of his scheduled meeting with Astoria, and he Apparated on the spot with the diary (and not the gift) in hand.

"Are you okay?" Astoria asked Draco, her hazel-green eyes filled with concern.

"Yes," he replied hastily, trying to give Astoria a reassuring smile.

Unconvinced, she raised an incredulous eyebrow. Astoria was anything but stupid. She was a shrewd, observant woman who could tell when something was wrong. When Draco had first arrived at Greengrass Manor, he was distracted and rattled, and his girlfriend had taken notice. Astoria invited him up to her room and began trying on dresses in front of him, but he paid more attention to the journal in his hand then he did to her. The green-eyed blonde was too polite to snatch it from his hands and throw it in the fire behind them.

Draco frowned. He simply had to get all thoughts of Ginevra out of his head. However, the version of the redhead in his mind refused to heed his request, much like how the corporeal version would choose to cooperate – in other words, not at all. It had been almost three months since he last saw her. He was positive that she knew what his feelings towards her were for he had left the letter in the journal on his bed for her to read. She had plenty of time to glance over his entries and realise that he wanted to see her after his release. She could have come to him. Instead, he received the diary a few days before Christmas with no other letters or entries inside.

Why did she dismiss him, so that she could resume her 'normal' life? He wasn't afforded such a luxury. He had tried. Yes, he had seriously tried to do the same – to move on – but he couldn't. He was always distracted now, always far away in thought, and his mind always wandered back to her.

"Draco?" Astoria called his name again, this time sounding angry.

"Hmm?"

"Honestly, Draco," Astoria said, shaking her head in annoyance, "I don't know how you function from day-to-day." She placed a hand on her hip and looked him up and down. "At least you're pretty."

Draco let out a groan and rolled his eyes. "Not with this again, Ginevra."

"_Ginevra_?" the blonde asked with a raised brow.

"I – Astoria," Draco corrected himself, then coughed, looking momentarily panicked. "I'm sorry, my mind momentarily wandered."

Astoria's eyes narrowed dangerously and she let out a sharp sigh before straightening her back. "Draco, I think you should take a walk to clear your head."

"Yes, you are right," he agreed, standing up and clutching the journal in his hand. "I'm going to Apparate home. I shall pick you up for dinner at seven."

With that, Draco returned to the grounds of the manor. He opened the gate leading to the house and strolled up the path towards the door with his hands in his pocket, carrying that damnable diary between the crook of his forearm and hip. When he entered the house, his mother greeted him in the foyer him with a raised brow, her hands resting delicately at her sides.

"I thought you were at the Greengrasses's with Astoria," Narcissa stated more so than asked.

"I was," he said, "but she told me to take a walk and clear my head."

Narcissa suppressed a wry grin. "Yes, so how was your walk from the foyer to the parlour?"

"Brisk and surprisingly refreshing," he replied, as if on cue.

Narcissa couldn't stop the grin from forming on her thin lips, and she strode over to her son, bringing a finger up to brush his silver-blond hair out of his eyes.

"You're letting your hair grow long again," she commented, seeing how her son was beginning to look increasingly like his father every day.

"Oh, am I?" Draco asked, unconsciously bringing a hand to his hair that now reached his shoulders. "I hadn't noticed." He frowned, knowing that his mother preferred his hair short. "Sorry, Mother. I shall make an appointment with the barber tomorrow."

Narcissa saw the distraction in her son's eyes and the book in his hands, and she lowered her eyes. She turned around and motioned with a finger for him to follow.

"Draco, come walk with me in the gardens," she ordered lightly, taking the lead.

Draco obediently followed, and they both strode outside through the glass doors that led past the atrium out onto the famous Malfoy gardens.

It was the beginning of March, and there was still snow on the ground in England, but not at Malfoy Manor. The gardens were always enchanted for early summer warmth. But to say that it was a garden, was to say that Buckingham Palace was a tool shed. The gardens were larger than three combined golf courses – a literal botanical garden. Several oak trees lined the expanse of the West wing as well as a small orange grove, a few cherry trees, and an apple orchard. Near the house were several colourful vines, including Morning Star jasmine, pink and blue wisteria, honeysuckle, and creeping fig. Flawlessly exquisite rose bushes, mainly white and yellow, led out towards a large, extravagant gazebo that was decorated with white baby's breath and surrounded by Gerber daisies, impatiens, Cymbidium orchids, and Peruvian lilies of assorted colours. A small herb garden lay adjacent to the East wing, and a cobblestone pathway led to a massive weeping willow that stood beside a reflection pond filled with dozens of golden koi. Next to it was a large brass bench surrounded by white and pink narcissus.

"Things are not going well with Astoria?" Narcissa asked, taking a seat after their brief walk.

Draco sat down beside his mother. "No, everything's fine," he answered almost mechanically, staring at an albino peacock that strutted by the pond, gazing down at the swimming koi. "She is a charming girl, very friendly and intelligent."

"Those are fine, virtuous qualities," Narcissa agreed, her voice barely catching Draco's attention.

"Yes," he answered absently, rubbing his thumb along the spine of the leather journal.

Narcissa watched her son play with the old book in his hand and she frowned thoughtfully. "You are not satisfied though?"

This time Draco heard her question and lowered his head, scowling. "Mother, does it matter what _I_ feel or want?"

"Of course it does, Draco," she answered, ignoring the acerbic quality to her son's voice. "Do you think that I would force you to be with someone you didn't care about?"

Draco looked up at his mother and frowned. Her expression was serious yet soft. He had never thought his parents would force him to be with someone he didn't want to be, but he also knew that he would be restricted by choice of whom he could marry.

"Perhaps not," he answered slowly, "but Father—"

Narcissa cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Your father only cares that you marry a pure-blood, one with a good name."

"Is that all?" he queried facetiously, rolling his eyes. "I'm glad to see that there are so many options left open to me."

Narcissa leaned forward and raised an eyebrow in incredulity. "Since when have you expressed a desire to be with Muggle-borns, half-bloods, or half-breeds, Draco?"

"I haven't," he answered truthfully.

Narcissa's mouth twisted into a frown. "Then why exactly are you trying to make me and your father out to be tyrants?" she asked, not remotely amused with her son's vitriolic tone.

"I'm not," he muttered, turning his head away, scowling petulantly.

"No?" She tilted her head to the side. "You look quite vexed, Draco." She placed her hands on her lap and took in a deep breath, deciding to approach her son from a different angle. "Is there something on your mind?"

Draco thought on it for a moment and then slowly spun around to face her. "Is my marriage to Astoria important? Is it what Father wants?"

Narcissa frowned. "Who said you are to be married to the girl?" she asked, genuinely perplexed by her son's sudden change in demeanour.

She could not account for his change in attitude, although she had her guesses. She had never seen Draco this unnerved before, and it began to somewhat unsettle her.

"But I thought—"

"No, you _presumed_, Draco," she stated authoritatively, cutting him off. "Of course your father and I would see her as a lovely addition to the Malfoy family, but it is not up to us to decide whom you marry."

"It isn't?" he asked, looking thoroughly shocked.

"No." Narcissa shook her head. "I would never force your hand, Draco. If you wanted to marry the poorest witch in England, we could never protest it." She bit the inside of her cheek. "Of course, your father would try and probably even threaten to disown you and cut off your inheritance, but you know that I would never let that happen." She smirked. "Besides, I have no fear of you making such a foolhardy decision. You are a wise young man."

Draco's face fell at her last words, and Narcissa pursed her lips into a frown. Something was most definitely on her son's mind, and the regal blonde had a feeling that she knew what (or who) it was.

"Of course times have changed," she added hesitantly, her eyebrows raised to gauge Draco's reaction. Predictably, he turned to look at her. "What sentiments had seemed so ironclad a few years ago have become tenuous and malleable. Priorities have become askew." She reached a hand out and placed it on his shoulder. "Now, I think even your father would be satisfied with you just marrying a pure-blood, regardless of her name." She gave him a knowing look, which caused him to furrow his brow. "There are so few of us around now – those who are not imprisoned or dead. Plus, a pure-blood of a less reputable name in my day has a name as pure as gold now."

Draco studied his mother's face for a moment. "Mother, what are you getting at?"

"Pardon?" she asked, feigning innocence. She did a terrible job at it.

"Mother, you have many talents, but subtlety isn't one of them," Draco stated dryly.

Narcissa's innocent façade morphed into an ill-masked look of mischievousness. "I'd like to think that I am far from ostentatious," she commented, turning her nose up at him.

"Do not get me wrong, Mother," he clarified, shaking his head, "but you have subtlety confused with cunning – and the latter you have in spades."

Narcissa grinned and brought her hand up to brush his long silver-blond hair out of his eyes. "I suppose I can forgive your cheek this one time."

Draco frowned and took his mother's hand in his. "Do not skirt the issue, Mother. Tell me what you are angling at."

Narcissa quietly sighed. Perhaps she was getting soft in her 'old' age. She could no longer pretend to know and do what was best for her son. She had to let him make his own mistakes. She had to let him be a man.

"Draco, you are my son," Narcissa began, "and do not, for one moment, think that your change in mood and demeanour has passed my notice." She narrowed her crystal-blue eyes on him and leaned back on the bench. "You have been moping about the house for months now. Then you finally venture outside, much to my prodding, and begin dating a delightful, albeit somewhat exuberant young girl, who obviously adores you, but you cannot return her affection."

"How do you—"

Narcissa raised a hand to signal his silence. "How many times do I have to state the obvious to you, Draco, before it finally sinks in?"

Draco raised an eyebrow and frowned.

"You are infatuated with the Weasley girl," Narcissa stated plainly.

Draco's mouth dropped open. "I never – you – how?" He was at a loss for words.

Narcissa pursed her lips tightly and glared at her son. "We should have sent you to a private school. Hogwarts obviously never taught you how to speak properly."

Her frown, however, subtly morphed into a wry grin, and Draco rolled his eyes. His mother had a sense of humour. How _drôle_.

"Milly," Narcissa called stiffly, fetching for her personal house-elf.

Milly appeared before the tall blonde with a loud pop. "Yes, Mistress?" the little elf asked obediently.

"Bring me the letter addressed to Draco," she demanded.

Milly disappeared and then reappeared instantly with a small roll of parchment in her hand, offering it to her mistress. Narcissa took the paper, dismissed Milly, and then turned to face her son. He was staring at her with a creased brow and cold, narrowed eyes.

"Do not look at me in that way, Draco," she said, dismissing him with a wave of her delicate hand. "This arrived a few weeks ago, but I had to send it to a private Curse-Breaker to make sure that it was safe."

"A few weeks ago?" Draco asked through gritted teeth, looking thoroughly annoyed.

"Quite honestly I did not want to give it to you," she stated somewhat haughtily. "I knew that girl was the reason for your melancholy. I had known it since I first laid eyes on her."

"Girl?" Draco asked, and then his eyes suddenly lit up in realisation. "This letter is from Ginevra?" His eyes darkened. "You saw her before?"

"Just before Christmas," Narcissa answered, seeing the look of anger and desperation reflect in her son's grey eyes. "She approached me in a café in Diagon Alley the night you got your hair cut. She wanted to know how you were."

Draco shook his head in a maddening manner. "Mother, why didn't you tell me?"

She sat with her back rigid against the bench. "Since you returned from the manor, all you have done is mope. I knew something was wrong. When I met her I could tell that she cared a great deal, and I came to realise that you cared for her as well."

"Then why didn't you tell me?" Draco was standing on his feet now, looking down at his mother angrily with his chest rising and falling in anger.

"I thought that it was a passing fling, Draco," she explained, shrugging indifferently. "It often happens in one's youth. You both had developed an impossible and fleeting romance." Narcissa sighed and shook her blonde tresses. "The two of you had essentially lived together for over half a year, and I thought that you just needed some time to move on and realise that what you thought was love was merely infatuation."

"You thought wrong, Mother," he stated evenly, his voice as cold as his eyes.

"I know I did." She looked out onto the expansive gardens. "I presumed that setting you up with a somewhat sensible girl would distract you, and it obviously hasn't."

Draco brought his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose. "If I had known that she was trying to contact me all along—"

"Then you would have answered her," Narcissa finished for him, a small smile on her face. "I admit that I did not know that your feelings for her ran so deep, Draco. I should have never tried to make your decisions for you."

She turned to look up at him with clear blue eyes, and Draco knew that this was the closest to an apology he would ever get from her. She then handed him the letter and stood up to leave, giving him his privacy. Draco sat back down on the bench and slowly began to unroll the parchment to read.

_Dear Draco,_

_I'm writing to you because I am at my wit's end. Why have you not tried to contact me? Are you too good for that? Am I not worth the effort? I asked your mother how you were doing when I met her in the café just before Christmas. Were you too busy being a heartless, self-absorbed git to answer me – too busy moving on, dating insipid tarts, and living the high life? Did you just want me to forget about you, forget about us? Well, I guess there never was an 'us', was there? I was foolish to believe that you cared, that our time together actually meant something to you._

Draco closed his eyes and cursed to himself. She had written him to tell him to piss off. He had missed his opportunity with her. Resignedly, he opened his eyes and moved on to the next paragraph.

_You're an idiot, you know that? When you left with Kingsley that day I felt as though my whole __world had collapsed. All I had known for those past seventh months was __you__, and you didn't even bother to say goodbye. You even left the journal I gave you. I thought you had forgot it, so I sent it to you. You didn't even reply to thank me. I thought you wanted to at least stay friends, not that we were friends. We were – I don't know what we were, but you could have been decent enough to want to keep in contact!_

He let out a shaky sigh. She hadn't read his entries. She didn't know how he felt about her. Draco wasn't sure how much more of this he could take, but he read on anyway. He owed her that much.

_Draco, I can forgive all of the above because you know me better than anyone does. You saw my heart and soul exposed. You read my journal. You know what happened to me at Hogwarts, what I did to myself, what others did to me. But I can't forgive this silence, acting like we never had a past – that I don't know you, because I do! Yes, you may hate the fact that a Weasley has seen the sensitive and vulnerable side to Draco Malfoy, but it's true. _

_I know the real Draco – the Draco who likes a glass of warm milk before he goes to bed at night, who takes extraordinarily long bubble baths (sans bubbles, of course), who reads romance novels like Wuthering Heights, and convinces himself that they are not romance novels so that he can protect his fragile manly ego. The same Draco Malfoy who pretends to be rubbish at football in order to let me win (and who trips me and pushes me into mud when I do win), who dances with a sort of grace that I dearly wish I could possess, and who listens to me and makes me feel like the most important person in the world …_

_Draco, if you don't love—like me then just tell me so. Put me out of my misery. I can't bear this waiting any longer nor carry this weight I balance on my chest nor harbour these doubts I feel in my soul. Tell me, __right now__, how you truly feel. I couldn't be more open about myself than I am right now, than what you have read in my journal. I wish I had that diary here now so that I could have at least read your thoughts, even if they did only say 'Die, She-Weasel, die.' ;)_

Draco let out a soft laugh and shook his head.

_Please answer me, even if it's to tell me to never write to you again. I need to know if you feel the same way that I do. I also need to know if you don't._

_Write to me._

_Love,_

_Ginevra_

"She never read any of my entries!" he exclaimed in shock, shaking his head in disbelief. "She didn't know that I wanted to talk with her after … Merlin! How could I have been so stupid?" He brought his fist up to his forehead in anger and frustration.

He had let the woman he loved slip through his finger because of his own foolish pride. She had felt the same way, and now he may have ruined it all, dashed any hopes of being with her.

"The word is 'obstinate', Draco," Narcissa corrected him from behind his shoulder, and he turned around in shock. "You get that from your father."

Draco lowered his hand to his side. He knew what he had to do, but he was still scared. He was a Malfoy, and he was terrified of the little Weasley girl.

"Mother, I know you cannot approve of her," he began, but Narcissa raised a hand to silence him in her customary manner.

"Draco, life is short," she stated softly but firmly. "You must do what you have to do—" she held her chin high "—but always remember to carry yourself like a Malfoy and take care of your business, love or otherwise, the proper way."

**-x-**

Ginevra sat with Luna at a small pub in Diagon Alley. The two had got together for lunch at least once a week since she had gone to talk with the blonde less than a month ago. As they sat inside the restaurant, Ginevra could not believe how cold it was for March. It had begun snowing the past few days, which was rather abnormal since it never usually snowed in London, least of all this early into spring. Luna had said that the Nargles were the reason for the long winter. She had gone on in great detail as to why, but Ginevra had tuned her out, daydreaming about sharp grey-eyes contrasting against the pure-white snow.

After they finished lunch, Luna had walked back with Ginevra to the shop, skipping in the snow. The ex-Ravenclaw had taken the year off to decide what she wanted to do for a career. She worked part-time for her father at the Quibbler, which had gained some notoriety and prestige during the war. Ginevra figured that the intuitive and talented blonde would most likely take over the paper or become a writer. George had jokingly suggested that Luna write the story of Harry Potter. Luna had taken the suggestion seriously but had decided to just write about the battle at Hogwarts. Ginevra had read the first few chapters and had to admit that they were quite good.

When they finished their meal and made their way back to the joke shop, Ginevra leaned over and gave her best mate a hug. Luna waved a happy goodbye and then Apparated back home, leaving the redhead behind.

Ginevra strolled into the shop and nodded a hello to George, who was smiling somewhat nervously.

"What?" she asked, looking sidelong at her older brother.

"Nothing," he replied innocently – too innocently.

"Uh huh," she said, eyeing him cautiously as she made her way up the stairs towards her room.

Ginevra opened her door and dropped her bag. Her tiny room was blanketed in red roses. There were petals on the floor, on her bed, and a dozen vases were filled to the brim with the sweet-smelling flowers. Her face lit up and she instinctively knew who had done this. She felt a hand on her shoulder from behind and she turned around, grinning.

"Dra—"

"Hullo, Gin," Harry greeted, a shy, sheepish smile on his face.

Ginevra frowned. "Harry?"

"I know that you said you never wanted to see me again, but …" He paused, lowering his head in shame. "I have been a fool, Ginny. I left you at Godric's Hollow all alone. I never came to visit you; I rarely owled or Floo'd you; I never celebrated your birthday …" He sighed, knowing that the list of wrongs was far too long for him to say in one mouth-full. "I was a horrible boyfriend, Gin, not even an adequate friend."

Ginevra lowered her eyes and a sad smile tugged at the corner of her lips. This is what she had been waiting for while she was at Godric's Hollow. She had wanted Harry to admit that he was wrong, and that he was a terrible boyfriend. Now, however, it didn't seem very important to her.

"I know that I shouldn't expect to be forgiven or even be given another chance. I have a lot to make up for, a lot of wrongs to right." He looked crestfallen. "It will take a long time or never at all to mend these wounds I have given you, given to us both, but I want to try."

Ginevra slowly waved her hand. "Harry, I forgive you for what happened," she said slowly, and his eyes lit up, "but I can't pretend that everything could be how it was a year ago."

"I know," Harry agreed, nodding his head, happy that she had at least forgiven him. "I would just like the opportunity to start over, to prove to you that I can be a better boyfriend." He looked down at her with sad, pleading eyes.

It had been three weeks since she sent the letter to Draco, and he had not yet replied to her or tried to contact her in any way. She had to give up on the possibility of having something with him. Harry was here, right now, trying to have a relationship with her. Ginevra knew that she should not take it, that she should stay single, but she was hurt and alone, and sometimes you do stupid things when you think that no one loves you.

"Okay, Harry," she said quietly, nodding her head. "We can try again."

**-x-**

Arthur Weasley rummaged through his desk, searching for the paperwork he was supposed to have filed ten minutes ago. He was sure that he had put it in the bottom drawer, but the file was nowhere to be found. He was about to give up and walk over to the next office to enquire if Johnson had seen the report when he heard a low and commanding voice address him from the doorway of his office.

"Mister Weasley?"

Arthur nodded and looked up, meeting steel-grey eyes accentuated by a just barely visible white scar that ran along the young man's right cheek towards his jaw. The boy looked and sounded unmistakably familiar.

"Sir, my name is Draco Malfoy, and I'd like to request a moment of your time."

* * *

**Author's notes:** Originally, I had written a part about Narcissa telling Draco what was in her censored letter to him, but I took it out because it really didn't help the story flow at this point. So I shall fill-in-the-blanks and tell you that parts of the letter that were censored told Draco 1) where Narcissa and Lucius were (at the Ministry of Magic as opposed to Azkaban) and 2) that Lucius was going to cut a deal.

The other part I left out was that Narcissa had sent more than one letter to Draco. Unfortunately, he did not receive many of these letters because of incompetent Ministry bureaucracy (not because of Harry). Again, I tell you this here in the author notes instead of mentioning these things in this chapter and the previous two just looked awkward. Plus, the information wasn't all that important. However, if any of you were to ever wonder, now you know. ^_~


	18. Turning the Tables

**Shades of Grey**

_Chapter Eighteen: Turning the Tables_

_"This is not the end. This is only the beginning."_ – Incognito (me).

It was an especially cold and snowy March evening as Ginevra, Percy, and George came in from outside, trudging the fluffy white substance into the Burrow with them. They took off their coats and gloves and settled themselves down at the dinner table with their mother and father. Ron was almost never home anymore, having moved into Grimmauld Place with Harry and Hermione; however, coming down the stairs at that moment was the infamous Trio.

All three smiled at Ginevra, greeting her and her brothers as they took their seats at the table. Bill and Fleur were at Shell Cottage as the pretty French woman was very visibly pregnant with their first child and was, predictably, too sick to sample Molly's food. Charlie, equally predictable, was still in Romania but was scheduled to return home once the baby was born, giving the Weasley family three wonderful events to celebrate: the birth of their first grandchild, the return of their second eldest son, and the first year anniversary of Voldemort's defeat.

Family and friends chatted animatedly with one another, laughing and smiling as Molly passed around the roast beef. Harry smiled nervously in his seat beside Ginevra. He had been trying admirably for the last week to ingratiate himself with her. For her part, Ginevra had endeavoured to get back into the routine with Harry but found it rather difficult. She still couldn't stop thinking about Draco: how he smiled, how he smelled, how his eyes changed from dark to light depending on his mood, how his lips tasted—

She had to move on from this path. The road to Draco wasn't even a cross-junction; it was a dead end. He didn't care for her. All that mattered to Draco was being free – free of her. Ginevra was with Harry now, and she had to accept this fact. She had not forgot what Harry had done, but she had forgiven him and decided to stay, to make things work between them. She supposed she _was_ a bit like Catherine. She couldn't have Draco, so now she was settling for Harry because everyone would approve of such a union. A union with Draco would only cause stress and heartache. But that was a moot point: he didn't want her; he had only ever seen her as his guard, his captor.

—Knock Knock—

Loud thudding on the door shook Ginevra from her thoughts. Everyone turned, wondering who could be knocking at this hour. Bill and Fleur would have merely Apparated in as would have Charlie or even Kingsley. So who could it be?

"Excuse me," Arthur said.

There was a tight smile on his face as he rose from the dinner table and exited the kitchen to go answer the door.

"Good evening, Mister Weasley," a charmingly silky voice greeted her father, and Ginevra whipped her head around to put a face to the familiar voice.

"Malfoy?" Ron queried, his mouth ajar.

Ron's fork was hanging precariously close to his eye, so Hermione lowered his fork with one hand and shut his jaw with the other.

Harry turned his head around too and then glanced over at Ginevra, whose eyes were shinning brightly – a shadow of a smile playing on her lips. Everyone watched the exchange with a mixture of mild shock and horror, especially when Draco extended his hand to Arthur. The older man took it somewhat reluctantly and shook it firmly. Quickly recomposing himself, Arthur put a hand on Draco's shoulder and ushered the blond into the dining room.

"Everyone, Mister Malfoy has come to join us for dinner."

The entire family, guests included, opened their mouths much like how Ron had earlier.

"I'm afraid I arrived late," Draco said, holding his gloves in his left hand. "Perhaps I shall take you up on that offer next time when I have followed proper decorum and owled the lady of the house for permission." He formally bowed to Molly, who almost squeaked at being called a lady. "It was rude of me to impose."

"Well, that's quite alright, Draco," Arthur said, straining his mouth to smile. "It is all my fault, really. I let your owl to me earlier slip my mind entirely." He cleared his throat and then sat down. "Please, take a seat."

Draco remained standing, hovering for a moment. Everyone else remained seated, still staring up at the blond in shock. Ginevra eyes were wide like saucer plates. What was he doing here, now?

"I'm afraid I cannot stay long," Draco politely refused, and Arthur looked more apprehensive about this than relieved. "Pardon me, if I could—" he looked at Arthur, interrupting the awkward silence "—but I would like to speak with Ginevra alone."

Arthur Weasley looked over at his daughter and swallowed nervously.

"I—"

"Yes," Ginevra answered immediately for her father and stood up, nodding her head emphatically.

The slightest trace of a smile crossed Draco's handsome features, and he extended his hand to her. Ginevra, in turn, grinned openly and somewhat foolishly at him, stepping forward to take his hand. Just then, Harry's fingers encircled her free wrist.

"Ginny!" he hissed. "What are you doing?"

Draco reached forward, lightening quick, and not so gently removed Harry's hand from Ginevra's.

"She is going for a walk with me, Potter. You have my word that no harm shall come to her," he stated solemnly, and then turned to look directly at Arthur, who inclined his head somewhat reluctantly.

A great murmur of protest erupted at the table, but Arthur immediately silenced everyone with a raised hand. Ginevra did not hear any of it. She quickly went to the door and stuffed her small feet into her boots, following Draco outside into the cold, not bothering to put on a coat. Instead, Draco took off his warm, insulated cloak and secured it around the shivering redhead. She took in a deep breath of the cold, crisp air and smiled. He was finally here with her. What took so long?

The snow began to fall lightly on their heads, and Ginevra reached forward to dust the snowflakes off Draco's shoulders while he tussled the wet flakes out of his now-short hair. He had apparently received a hair cut since he had left Godric's Hollow. It was now spiked in a roguish manner, matching the charming grin on his face. While she loved his hair long, she had to admit that she liked it short and messy too. Hell, any hairstyle looked good on him.

"Ginevra," he said, smiling down at her in the moonlight.

They made an indelible scene: she, pale and beautiful with vibrant red hair, and he, equally pale with matching snow-white hair, both facing each other against the backdrop of a star-lit sky that continued to deposit large, fluffy flakes of snow on top of them.

"Draco." She breathed his name like a prayer, blushing slightly at her own exuberance. She should still be mad at him. He ignored her.

Draco hesitantly reached out, his fingers on her cheek. When Ginevra leaned into his touch, he brought his other hand up and cupped her face.

"I never got your owl until just recently," he admitted softly, and she pressed a hand to his chest in shock, wide brown eyes swimming. "I would have come over immediately when I received it, but I had a few loose ends to tie up."

"Loose ends?"

He looked down at her somewhat sheepishly. "I had to end my relationship with Astoria."

Ginevra's face fell. She really had no right to be upset; in fact, it would have made her a hypocrite since she was dating Harry. But still, she couldn't help but feel disappointed and jealous.

"My mother never told me that you had asked about me," Draco added, a small scowl forming on his face, as though his visual expression alone could offer her a reasonable explanation for why he had even considered dating the Greengrass girl in the first place.

Ginevra tilted her head and was about to open her mouth to question why his mother failed to tell him when he cut her off with a wave of his hand.

"It doesn't matter _why_ she did it, Ginevra. It's in the past, and I promise that nothing like that will never happen again." His face was dark and serious.

She smiled hesitantly. She did not know if this boded well or ill for her.

"I didn't contact you when I returned home because I thought you had read my entries in the journal and dismissed them." His demeanour softened. "My last entry asked if you wanted to stay in contact because – because I wanted to."

He lowered his hands to his sides, and she looked up at him, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I never thought to read the journal. I just sent it back to you. I … Merlin! I'm so stupid!"

She brought a hand to her forehead in frustration, and he gently reached out to take her hand in his.

"I thought that after everything I had done to you in the past you wanted me out of your life forever," she whispered, her voice faltering. "I thought that you wanted to forget me."

"You, Ginevra?" He laughed softly, shaking his head. "How could I _ever_ forget you?"

She smiled and let out a little laugh of her own, staring down at her snow-covered boots. Her heart felt as though it had swelled to twice its size with joy and relief. He had not rejected her like she thought he had.

Draco put a finger underneath Ginevra chin's and lifted her face so that she could meet his eyes.

"This isn't a romance novel," he stated seriously, taking both of her gloveless hands in his.

"I don't expect a happy ending," she replied, as if they'd had this conversation before – perhaps in her mind or in another lifetime.

She let go of his hands and reached up to graze her fingers along the ridge of his scar, noting how beautiful it made him look. He brought his hand on top of hers, letting the ghost of a smile haunt his lips as he pressed her fingertips against his cool cheek.

"What I mean is …" He paused. "I don't want a tragic ending like Heathcliff and Catherine. I don't want to make the same mistakes they made, that others have made – fictional or otherwise." He smirked, and she laughed softly. "The same mistakes that Potter made with you."

She looked up at him shocked. What was he trying to say?

"I would have never sent you to guard a man you despised," he said, as though he had been holding his breath the entire time. "I would have never let you out of my sight!"

Ginevra let out an audible gasp as Draco possessively pulled her in close to him. He shook his head and squeezed her hands affectionately, letting her know that he was being serious.

"I cannot promise that a life with me will be easy," he admitted. "I have a lot of soul-searching to do, and I am still an incorrigible git." He smirked, and she felt the tears brim in her eyes. "The road will be long and difficult and teemed with many shouting matches and crying – mainly on your part." His smirk widened, and she laughed, slapping his arm as the tears freely trickled down her cheeks. "But I would have no one else but you to take that journey with me."

Ginevra smiled and sniffed at the cold and the raw emotion that she felt. She took a step forward and leaned her face into his broad chest as he securely wrapped his strong arms around her.

"I knew that you were the one to fill my life with intrigue and adventure, Draco," she stated, her cheek flat against his chest. "I cannot see myself with anyone but you – for good or for bad." She turned her head up at him and smiled shyly.

"That's all I wanted to hear." He tilted her chin once more, forcing her to look up at him with her mouth parted as he bent down towards her face. "And now you shall be my prisoner," he whispered in her ear.

Her eyes widened in shock, and Draco stood back up, giving Ginevra his patented Malfoy smirk. He then grabbed her hand and led her towards a luxurious black carriage just outside the grounds. She had surmised that he had Apparated outside her house. How foolish of her to assume that Draco Malfoy would be anything other than ostentatious.

"Draco," she began, looking back at the Burrow, expecting one of her brothers to come storming out of the house to chase them down.

"You have visited your family long enough, Ginevra," he said with authority, and with that same roguish grin plastered on his face. "You will see them again." He squeezed her hand reassuringly. "For now, you will be staying with me at the Manor until I decide when your term of incarceration is over." He looked down at her and waggled his pale eyebrows in jest.

Ginevra suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, and Draco turned around, still holding onto her hand.

"You can't be serious," she stated, a look of shock registering on her face.

He shook his head and grinned. "Ginevra, you know that I am joking about you being my prisoner."

"Oh, yes, I know that," she said, smiling, relieving him of his worries.

He thought that maybe he had gone too far and had unsettled her.

"I just mean, I can't," she said, looking down at her feet. "I can't go with you."

"And why not?" he asked, his tone of superiority returning.

"There is no way my family would let me go with you," she answered, looking up at him with her rich brown eyes.

"Do you object to going with me?" he asked in a hopeful tone.

"Well, no," she began, blushing. "My family, however—"

"Well, then if you do not object to going then I cannot see a problem." The self-assured grin returned to his face.

"But my father—"

"Do not worry about your father or your family," Draco reassured her. "Mister Weasley has no objections to you staying with me for a little while, as long as you agree to it."

Ginevra looked up at Draco in wide-eyed disbelief. "He couldn't possibly trust you."

"Thank you for that vote of confidence, Weasley."

She punched him in the arm. "It's Ginevra, _Draco_!"

"Yes, well, _Ginevra_, your father knows that I am taking you to Malfoy Manor." He smiled as she looked up at him with open incredulity. "I met with him last week at the Ministry of Magic, and we had a … talk."

"A talk?" She looked somewhat horrified at the thought of Draco and her father having a heart-to-heart conversation about her.

"I convinced him of my honourable intentions towards you and allowed him to perform Legilimency on me." He waved his hand dismissively as though this was nothing out of the ordinary. "He trusts that you will not be harmed in my presence."

"How?" She still had no idea how her father would have consented even if he knew that Draco had honourable intentions.

"An Unbreakable Vow tends to placate one's fears and doubts," he remarked nonchalantly.

"An _Unbreakable_ Vow?" She took a step closer. "Why did you—"

"I vowed to your father that I would never intentionally harm you, physically," he explained, cutting her off. "I wanted to add emotionally too, but Mister Weasley insisted that the physical element was adequate enough. He remarked that as a Gryffindor and a Weasley your pride was easily hurt." He put his finger to his lips, looking upwards in a contemplating manner. "How did he put it? 'No point in dying because you failed to notice one day that she had changed her hairstyle'." Draco looked down at her and grinned. "I must say, I rather don't mind your father. He's a very tolerable sort."

"You git!" Ginevra punched the handsome blond in the arm – again.

"See!" Draco exclaimed dramatically, pointing his finger at the ground. "I'd be face-planted in the snow right now if your father hadn't stopped me!"

His facial expression was far too serious, and Ginevra ended up being seized by a fit of giggles, which quickly escalated into sweet-sounding, belly-rumbling laughter.

Draco pulled her in close and laughed with her, holding onto her tightly while she struggled to free herself from his grasp. She desperately needed to punch him again, to get back at him for being so cheeky and to feel that he was real and here with her, right now. She needed that tangible veracity to let her know that what she had been dreaming of for all these months was finally coming true.

"I can't believe you did that with my father and without my consent at all! You are an infuriating man," she growled, finally wrestling free from his grasp to punch his shoulder yet again.

Luckily, he had developed more muscle there over the past ten months or he would have had a series of black and blue bruises up and down his arms.

"What about Harry?" Ginevra asked suddenly.

Draco scowled at her, furrowing his brow. "What about him?" he asked bitingly.

Ginevra couldn't help but giggle at his sour expression. "Shouldn't I go back and break up with him?" .

Draco's countenance brightened considerably. "Why don't you do it in an owl?"

She laughed again, despite herself, and brought her arm back to throw another playful punch at him. He caught her hand this time and drew her in close, crushing her tiny frame against his chest as he looked down into her almond-shaped eyes.

"So …" he began, bending his head down so that their noses were touching, feeling her breath on his cheek.

"So …"

"Do you hate me?" he asked, a knowing smirk playing on his face.

"Yes," she whispered, biting her bottom lip.

"Already?"

He bent down to capture her lips with his, finally capitulating to their long, unfulfilled desires with a deep, passionate kiss. She melted into his touch, her eyes still closed when he finally drew back, smirking.

"Liar."

* * *

**Author's notes:** It's done! Yay! I realise that Draco was a tad OOC (or 'soft around the edges'), but how can any of us know what eight months of solitude can do to a person, what being with only one other human being for seven months can make one feel for the other? I think such solitude can change a man _and_ a woman's perception of that man and bring them together. No longer can they see each other or the world around them in black and white: now it is all in _shades of grey_.

* * *

_Thank you to all who read and reviewed this story. I appreciate your kind words of encouragement and appreciation. This story is dedicated to you, the loyal reader._

_~Lia_


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